Substitute Marriage: My Lethal Comatose Husband

The air inside the carved mahogany closet was thick enough to chew.

Seven-year-old Avalon Kensington pressed her spine against the back panel, her small hands clamped over her own mouth. Her lungs burned. Every breath she dragged in tasted like ash and copper.

Heavy, rapid footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor of the second-floor hallway. The sound vibrated through the soles of her shoes.

A deafening crash shattered the silence. The antique porcelain vase in the corridor exploded into a thousand pieces against the wall.

Her mother, Cecilia, stumbled backward into the master bedroom. Blood soaked the front of her white silk blouse, sticking the fabric to her skin. She was gasping, her chest heaving violently as she threw her weight against the heavy mahogany door.

Cecilia's hands slipped on the brass lock, slick with her own blood, but she managed to force the deadbolt into place.

"Open the damn door, Cecilia!" Bronson Burnett's roar bled through the wood, feral and raw.

A massive impact hit the door. The doorframe groaned, the wood splintering under the force.

Cecilia didn't look at the door. She lunged toward the closet. She yanked the door open just enough to shove her blood-soaked hand over Avalon's face, pressing her fingers hard against the girl's lips.

"Do not make a sound," Cecilia whispered, her voice a wet, ragged wheeze. "No matter what happens. Do not breathe."

Another violent crash. The mahogany door gave way, the hinges tearing out of the frame.

Bronson stepped into the room. He held a brass letter opener in his right hand. The sharp metal edge dripped crimson onto the Persian rug.

Cecilia didn't hesitate. She threw herself at Bronson, her fingernails clawing at his face, trying to buy her daughter seconds.

Bronson didn't even flinch. He swung his arm. The brass letter opener sank deep into Cecilia's abdomen.

Cecilia's body folded. She collapsed onto the rug, her blood pooling into the intricate woven patterns. Her eyes rolled toward the crack in the closet door, locking onto Avalon's hiding spot. Her gaze was a silent, desperate command to stay hidden.

Bronson sneered. He stepped right over Cecilia's twitching body and walked to the wall safe. He tore through the files, his hands moving frantically until he found the thick manila envelope he wanted.

Bronson grabbed Cecilia by the ankle first. He dragged her limp body across the floor, dumping her unceremoniously into the center of the Persian rug. He pulled a windproof lighter from his pocket. The metal lid clicked open with a sharp snap. He grabbed a decorative bottle of high-proof liquor from the bedside table, shattering it over the rug around her. He held the flame to the soaked fibers. The alcohol caught instantly. Fire raced across the floor, feeding on the oxygen in the room and rapidly surrounding her body. Black smoke began to fill the space, choking the air as the flames spread outward toward the heavy velvet curtains.

He watched the flames consume the evidence for three seconds, then turned and walked out, pulling the broken door shut behind him.

Inside the closet, Avalon's vision went black at the edges. Her throat closed up. She couldn't pull air into her lungs. The heat blistered her skin through the wood. She was going to die here.

Suddenly, the heavy glass of the bedroom window shattered inward.

Arthur Vance, the estate's old groundskeeper who was secretly her grandfather, tumbled into the room. He was draped in a soaking wet wool blanket, coughing violently as the smoke hit his lungs.

"Avalon!" Arthur screamed, his voice cracking over the roar of the fire.

Avalon pushed against the closet door with the last ounce of strength in her arms. She fell forward onto the burning floor.

Arthur lunged. He scooped her up, wrapping the heavy, wet blanket tightly around her small body.

He didn't look back. He carried her to the shattered window and threw them both out, plummeting toward the swimming pool below.

The icy water hit them like concrete. The world went completely dark.

Fifteen years later.

The smell of cheap motor oil and rust replaced the memory of smoke.

Avalon Kensington, who now went by the name Lana Hicks, stood in front of a cracked mirror inside a rundown auto repair shop in Pennsylvania.

She held a large, hyper-realistic prosthetic birthmark in her hands. The silicone was dyed a deep, angry red. She carefully aligned the edges with the right side of her face, pressing it into her skin until the seams vanished.

She stared at the ugly, disfigured girl in the mirror. Her pulse was slow. Her hands didn't shake.