Chapter 2 - The Substitution
The iron gates of the Marchetti compound groaned open like the jaws of a subterranean fortress.
The sleek black limousine rolled slowly down the long, winding driveway, flanked by towering pine trees dusted with early winter frost. Inside the vehicle, Maeve clutched her small leather handbag against her ribs, her knuckles white. Her heart was beating so violently she felt sick.
You are Avery Ashford, she repeated to herself over and over, like a prayer. You are an Ashford. You are doing this for Patrick. Just survive.
The limousine pulled up to the grand front entrance of the estate—a sprawling stone manor that looked more like an impenetrable European castle than a Chicago residence. The car door opened, and a tall, scarred man in a tailored charcoal suit offered his hand.
"Miss Ashford," Gabriel said, his face completely unreadable. "I am Gabriel Ferraro, Mr. Marchetti's head of security. Follow me."
Maeve stepped out into the biting wind, her silk dress offering little warmth. She held her head high, forcing her spine to remain straight as she followed Gabriel through the heavy double oak doors into the grand foyer.
The interior was magnificent—marble floors, dark wood paneling, and massive oil paintings—but it was suffocatingly quiet. No music. No laughter. Only the heavy, oppressive silence of a house mourning its master's strength.
Gabriel led her down a long corridor, stopping outside a pair of double mahogany doors. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes assessing every inch of her face.
"Mr. Marchetti has been... difficult since the accident," Gabriel warned softly. "He does not like pity. He does not like weakness. Remember who you are dealing with."
Maeve swallowed her terror and nodded. "I understand."
Gabriel opened the doors. "Go in."
Maeve took a breath and stepped into the grand study.
The room was vast, lit only by the roaring fire in the hearth. Heavy burgundy drapes blocked out the winter afternoon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the mahogany furniture.
And there, in the center of the room, sat Elias Marchetti.
He was positioned in a sleek, matte-black mechanical wheelchair. His broad shoulders were clad in a dark wool sweater, his long legs covered by a thick cashmere blanket. His face was turned toward the fire, his profile sharp, harsh, and strikingly handsome—a jawline carved from marble, high cheekbones, and dark, thick hair swept back from his forehead.
He didn't turn around when she entered.
"Leave us, Gabriel," Elias commanded. His voice was low, rich, and dangerous—a gravelly baritone that sent a sudden, involuntary shiver down Maeve’s spine.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind her. Maeve was alone with Chicago's most feared crime boss.
For almost a minute, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crackle of burning logs in the fireplace.
"Sienna isn't coming, is she?" Elias asked quietly, still staring at the flames.
Maeve felt her breath catch. She took two slow steps forward, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. "My sister... Sienna was overcome with grief, Mr. Marchetti. She suffered a nervous breakdown after hearing the doctors' report. She couldn't bear to see you like this."
Elias slowly turned his head.
When his eyes met hers, Maeve almost stumbled backward. They were not the eyes of a broken, defeated cripple. They were dark, piercing, and terrifyingly sharp—eyes that seemed to look right through her silk dress, through her pearls, and straight into her soul.
"Grief," Elias repeated, testing the word on his tongue like poison. "Is that what she calls it?"
"She... she sent me in her place," Maeve stammered, forcing herself to maintain eye contact despite the overwhelming aura of power radiating from him. "I am Avery. Avery Ashford. Her half-sister. My father brought me home recently."
Elias studied her face. He noted the slight tremble in her lower lip, the way her hands clutched her handbag, and the undeniable truth in her hazel eyes—eyes that held no malice, only a desperate, raw courage.
"And why are you here, 'Avery'?" Elias asked, leaning back in his wheelchair, his left hand resting on the armrest while his right hand slowly rotated the black onyx ring on his pinky. "Did your father force you to take your sister's place? Or did you volunteer to marry a man who can no longer stand?"
Maeve took a deep breath. She thought of Patrick in his hospital bed. She thought of the wire transfer Margaret had promised.
"I volunteered," Maeve said, her voice growing surprisingly steady. "Because an agreement was made between our families, Mr. Marchetti. And whatever happened to you... you are still a man worthy of respect. You do not deserve to be abandoned in the dark."
Elias stared at her. For a fraction of a second, something flared in his dark eyes—a spark of genuine surprise.
He reached out his hand, adjusting the cashmere blanket resting over his knees. As he did, the heavy wool slipped slightly, exposing the metal brace fitted over his left leg.
Maeve didn't look away. She didn't flinch or show the repulsed expression Sienna had displayed in the hospital. Instead, without thinking, Maeve stepped forward, dropped down onto her knees beside his wheelchair, and gently reached out.
"May I?" she asked softly.
Elias went rigidly still. "What are you doing?"
"The blanket is falling," Maeve said gently. "It's cold in this room."
She took the edge of the cashmere blanket and pulled it back over his lap, tucked it carefully around his knees, and looked up into his face. She was so close he could smell the faint, natural scent of lavender on her skin—not the expensive, suffocating French perfume Sienna always wore, but something clean, honest, and warm.
Elias looked down at her hands resting near his knees. Her fingers were slender, but they were not the smooth, soft hands of a pampered high-society heiress. There were small calluses on her palms—calluses earned from years of scrubbing floors, washing crystal, and carrying heavy trays.
A maid's hands, Elias thought.
"You don't cringe when you touch me," Elias said, his voice dropping an octave, searching her eyes.
"Why would I cringe?" Maeve asked quietly, her hazel eyes completely clear. "A man's worth isn't measured by his legs, Mr. Marchetti. It's measured by what he carries inside."
Elias stared at her for a long, heavy moment. His heart, usually cold and unyielding as granite, gave a strange, unfamiliar thud.
"Get up, Avery," Elias commanded, though his tone was no longer harsh. "You will stay in the east wing. Gabriel will show you to your quarters. We will sign the civil marriage documents on Friday."
Maeve stood up, smoothing down her ivory dress. "Thank you, Mr. Marchetti."
"Call me Elias," he said, turning his face back toward the fire.
"Goodnight, Elias," she whispered, turning toward the door.
As the heavy mahogany doors closed behind her, Elias Marchetti slowly reached down, touched the cashmere blanket she had neatly tucked around his legs, and looked toward the corner of the room.
"Gabriel," Elias called out.
The secret door behind the bookcase slid open, and Gabriel stepped into the light.
"Boss?"
Elias leaned back, his eyes fixed on the door where Maeve had just exited.
"Call St. Jude’s Hospital," Elias ordered coldly. "Find out who paid for Patrick Donnelly’s surgery today."
"The money came from Margaret Ashford's private account three hours ago, sir," Gabriel answered instantly.
Elias’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Cancel Margaret's payment. Pay the hospital six hundred thousand dollars directly from my personal account. Cover every expense the boy has for the rest of his life. And make sure the Ashford family doesn't receive a single penny back."
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Gabriel blinked in surprise. "Sir... you're protecting the fake bride?"
Elias turned his head, his hand gripping the onyx ring. "The Ashfords tried to give me garbage, Gabriel. Instead, they sent me a girl who kneels in the cold just to keep me warm. I want to see how long she can play this game before she tells me the truth."
