Wife's Death Countdown

The stench of rotting meat shouldn't have been this sweet. Lucas Thorne lay convulsing on the Persian rug, his billionaire lungs rattling with the very curse he’d spent years trying to feed me. For three years, I’d played the subservient housemaid to my own husband, enduring his spit, his mistresses, and his sadistic games, all while a terminal rot—transferred by his hand—gnawed at my bones. But the jade pendant around my neck had just pulsed with a heat that wasn't of this world, and now, the disease was back where it belonged. As his mistress shrieked and the Thorne empire began to tilt on its axis, I didn't call for help. I simply stood over him, a vengeful ancient soul waking up in the body of a Denver socialite, and watched the man who called me a dog take his final, agonizing breath. My inheritance was coming, and I had a lot of blood to wash off the floor.