Cassie Mint

  Swapped Bride

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-12-0

  Cover art by Black Cherry Book Covers

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Garrett

  2. Nora

  3. Garrett

  4. Nora

  5. Garrett

  6. Nora

  7. Garrett

  8. Nora

  9. Garrett

  10. Nora

  11. Garrett

  About the Author

  One

  Garrett

  The decision is simple. Mountford wronged me—he tried to humiliate me and poach my suppliers; tried to swoop in on my territory. I know the man is a sniveling wretch, but this is an insult I cannot allow.

  I could bankrupt him, of course. Take his mansion; his staff; his businesses. His offshore accounts and gaudy fleet of sports cars. If anything, I’d be doing the man a favor—for an art dealer, he has terrible taste.

  But no. Those are just possessions, things. He’d make more money to replace what I took; he’d lean on his shady partners to help him back up to the top.

  If I ruin him that way, it will be temporary. Unsatisfying. A sugar hit followed by an inevitable slump.

  And I want to ruin him. I want him gutted and hollow; I want him to lay awake in his bed at night, sweating and trembling at the horror of what I’ve done. I want him to know, down to his wretched bones, that he brought it on himself.

  That he roused me. He poked the beast. Angered the Fox.

  And he paid the price.

  Even now, the memory of his insolence makes my teeth clench. My pulse hammers in my throat, violence raging in my chest. To an outside observer, I would appear completely calm—bored, even.

  Inside, I’m a maelstrom. And I will have my vengeance.

  So if not his ugly sports cars, then what? It’s simple, really. There is only one thing in this whole universe which Mountford prizes above all else.

  His daughter, Lily. The prize of the city. A famed beauty, and the muse of fashion photographers everywhere. Oh, Mountford trots her out like a pedigree poodle, grinning for the cameras. His smug face says it all: “You like her, huh? She’s mine, mine, mine.”

  As if her famed beauty is from him, with his sunken eyes and thinning silver hair. Pathetic old fool. Well, there’s nothing else for it. I lean back in my desk chair, drumming my fingers on the mahogany wood, then gust out a sigh and pound her name out on my keyboard. A few clicks, and there she is: Lily Mountford.

  Soon to become collateral damage.

  I enlarge her photo, scrolling through the street fashion shots. She’s a natural in front of the camera—all creamy skin and soft, caramel waves. I twist my mouth, considering her, but…

  Nothing. I feel nothing.

  I get more aroused looking at the black market paintings in my private gallery.

  No matter. I’m not going to hurt her after all. She will be my wife only in name. A possession to dangle over her father’s head, lest he get ideas above his station again. I scroll through Lily’s information, already bored, and my eyes snag on one detail.

  Siblings: Twin sister, deceased.

  Mountford had twins? I’ve never heard of another daughter. She must have died long ago. Before he started bothering me, jostling for dominance in the art dealing world.

  I look at Lily’s photos again, looking for signs of grief. Perhaps we will have something in common after all. A shared darkness that we might bond over. She may not move me physically, may not interest me sexually, but if she is to be my wife, it would be preferable to get along.

  Preferable, but not essential. If she’s as tiresome as her father—and she surely must be, given the way he dotes on her—I’ll pack her off to Europe to one of my empty homes. She can spend her days posing in vineyards, or volunteering for homeless shelters, or whatever it is bored wives do.

  I don’t need to want her. Hell, I don’t even need to like her.

  Like I said. Collateral damage.

  I lean closer to the screen, staring at her face in photo after photo. But there are no shadows clinging below those emerald eyes; no strain around her mouth. By all accounts, she is happy. Perfectly content with life, never mind her dead twin.

  What a brat. If I’d had someone to call family, someone to band together with while growing up, nothing would shatter my loyalty. I’d be ruined to find myself without them. Instead, I’d been alone, left to fend for myself, forced into darkness—

  I shut the thought down. I know from experience: it leads nowhere useful.

  “My apologies, Lily,” I murmur to myself, the words sounding empty to my own ears. I’m not sorry. This must be done. Her father must learn the consequences of his actions. I snatch my phone off the desk, dial without looking, and press it to my ear.

  My assistant answers on the first ring, his voice calm.

  “Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Reach out to Mountford. Relay this message word-for-word.” I smirk at my monitor, eyes still trained on Lily. It’s a pity, really, that her appearance leaves me cold. “I’ve chosen my price for his indiscretions. He can agree, or I’ll take every last cent he owns.”

  “Very good, sir. What is the price?”

  “His daughter, Lily.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “She will be my bride.”

  Two

  Nora

  I bound off the sofa in my private suite, arms pinwheeling as I remember the wet nail polish on my toes a moment too late. My feet scrunch into the rug, my arms flailing as I catch my balance, then I huff and bend down to inspect the damage.

  “Phew!” I straighten up, flipping my golden brown hair out of my face with a smile. “They can still be saved.”

  No one replies. I do this a lot—talk to myself in the silence. Apart from Lily, no one ever comes up to my floor, tucked away as it is in the tower.

  You’d think my father built his mansion like this on purpose, just to lock his daughter away in a turret.

  Not Lily, though. Lily can go where she likes. She’s his pride and joy. And I was too, back when we were little, our perfect faces bright and unmarred.

  It all changed after the accident. The ice skating lesson which ended with a deep gash scored through my cheek. I was lucky to be alive, the doctors said in the hospital—a few inches lower and the skate could have slit my throat.

  My father didn’t see it that way. All he saw was my scar, and what it meant: spoiled goods.

  “You’ll never make a name for yourself now,” he’d growled as he took me home from the hospital. “What use are you to me?”

  I was eight years old.

  Eleven years later, and those words still sting. They echo in my mind whenever I glance in the mirror and catch a glimpse of that angry scar. Brushing my teeth is a minefield; getting dressed is an exercise in avoiding my own gaze.

  At least I don’t have to worry about looking presentable. Not like Lily—she agonizes over her outfits, terrified that the press will rip her to shreds.

  “This is my way out,” she told me once. “If I can do this, if I can become a model or an actress, I’ll be free. And I’ll take you with me,” she’d added quickly, squeezing my arm. “We’ll be together.”

  We linked pinkies, and I nodded.

  “Together. Always.”

  So that’s one benefit of being locked away, all because of a stupid scar. No one scrutinizes my appearance, and thank God! My skin goes all hot and flushed just thinking about it. I’m left here in peace, and though it may be boring, I get to work on my designs.

  Nail art. New color combinations. Ways of creating patterns and using tiny jewels. I get better with every design I try, and the followers of my secret social media accounts think so too.

  Rapunzel Designs, I’ve called my little venture. Lily has her looks—well, this is my way out.

  My father can’t keep me locked up here forever. He just can’t.

  “Lil?” I call out now, my painted toes saved. I could have sworn I heard the door open.

  Slow footsteps come down the hall, creaking over the floorboards, then my sister stands in the doorway. I squeal, excited to see her, shuffling forward with my arms outstretched, but something makes me stop.

  She looks… not just sad. She looks ruined.

  Lily is deathly pale, her beautiful features drawn. Her usually plump, rosy lips are bloodless. She darts out her tongue to wet her lip, then clears her throat to speak.

  Silence rings through the tower.

  My twin sister bursts into tears.

  “Lil?” I ask, alarmed, forgetting my toes and running forward. She falls into my arms, sobbing into my shoulder. I can barely catch w hat she’s saying, she’s howling so much, but I hear a few words.

  Father.

  Sold.

  Marriage.

  No, that can’t be right. Our father loves Lily. After all, she’s the beautiful one. She’s the one who brings him attention and prestige, who he can dangle in front of potential business partners to distract them and strike good deals.

  If he sold her somehow, he’d lose all of that. I shake my head hard, my ears ringing.

  “Lil. Stop. Tell me again, slowly.”

  She hiccups loudly, burying her face in my neck. Then she straightens up, her eyes hard but her lip wobbling, and scrubs her sleeve over her wet, shining face.

  “He’s given me away,” she says, voice hoarse. “Sold me like one of his paintings. He’s making me marry the Fox, Nora.”

  I shudder. Everyone’s heard of the Fox. The man is a legend in the art world, famed for pulling off impossible heists and striking billion dollar deals.

  He’s cold. Brutal. Even worse than our father. I shake my head hard, gathering Lily back into my arms.

  “No. No, he can’t have you. They can’t sell you, Lily, you’re a human being!”

  “You know it’s not that simple,” she whispers, and my heart sinks like a stone.

  I do know. Our father is not a good man. He does business in the shadows; there is blood on his hands. If he wants something from his people, we make it happen, or heads roll. Literally.

  Perhaps not us. But if not us, someone we care for. And for Lily…

  I’m her weakness. I’m the reason she’s going through with this.

  My heart breaks into a thousand pieces in my chest. The only person I love, the only person who loves me—gone. Sold to a monster.

  I’ll never see her again. And who knows what horrors await her with the Fox?

  I guide Lily over to the sofa, still sobbing in my arms, and sit her down on the cushions. Her voice cracks as she cries, and every whimper feels like a punch to my stomach.

  “If I m-marry him, I’ll never… I’ll never be with…” Lily bursts into tears again, burying her face in a cushion. I smooth a palm over her trembling back, up and down between her shoulder blades, my brain whirring a mile a minute.

  Lily may be resigned to her fate, but I’m not. And the beginnings of a plan swirl in my mind.

  Lily does not want to marry the Fox.

  And I do not want to stay here.

  Oh sure, an arranged marriage is not how I’d choose to leave, but perhaps it’s a blessing. An opportunity.

  I’ll play the role. Trick the Fox. And be swept out of this house with him once and for all. Then, the second his guard is down, I’ll sneak away. I’ll finally start my own life, not locked away in this tower.

  It’s reckless. It’s crazy. There are a thousand things that could go wrong. But my heart swells in excitement.

  “Lily.” I nudge my crying twin. “Dry your eyes. I’ve got a plan.”

  Three

  Garrett

  I never planned to take a wife. Women have been little more than distractions to me—always scheming and wanting something. My riches, my artworks, my prestige. A ticket to fortune and fame.

  I don’t blame them. Hell, I respect them for it. But I’m no one’s mark.

  It is tiresome, then, to find myself in a wedding tux. The fabric is dark and soft, perfectly tailored, with a crisp, snowy white shirt underneath. As I linger in a hallway, some brave or foolish soul tucks a flower into my button hole.

  I let it happen. Beautiful things are my kryptonite.

  Speaking of beautiful things—there is no sign of my future wife. There have been no communications beyond Mountford’s grudging acceptance. He was blustery and casual about it, trying to pass it off in the gentleman’s club as a mutual idea.

  As if anyone would want me as a son in law. I’m twice his daughter’s age, and lethal behind my bored smile. I’ve ended lives, stolen wonders. Toppled kingpins.

  So, fine. Mountford can laugh and pretend that this was all his doing. That he’s tamed the beast, not fallen prey to its ire.

  We both know the truth. Everyone else does, too. The man can’t even sustain his own lie. For example: this wedding that is supposedly his idea, this joining between his precious daughter and his new ‘ally’—there is no reception planned. No well wishers invited. No gleeful paparazzi.

  Only one each of our employees to act as witnesses, Mountford himself, and the bride.

  Please. He’s no worthy opponent.

  If the roles had been reversed, I’d have covered my humiliation with a grand party, the likes of which the city had never seen. I’d have buried any doubts under a landslide of opulence, celebrating the ‘happy’ occasion.

  Instead, Mountford is sulking. Short-sighted child.

  No matter. I would have skipped the reception anyway.

  “Well?” I snap as my assistant James approaches. A young man in his early twenties, James was an unlikely choice, but I favor competence over empty experience. James is sharp and efficient, seemingly tireless in his commitment, and has no family life to distract him from his work.

  “She’s coming.” James comes to a halt at my side, his eyes darting over my appearance. He may be committed to his work, but he won’t candy his words. If I look a fool, he will tell me so.

  Yes, he’s a valuable asset.

  “The button hole’s a nice touch,” James murmurs as we watch the priest duck through a nearby doorway. Out in the main chapel, string music quavers to life. It’s unearthly and aching, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, and I swallow hard.

  Now is no time for sentiment.

  “Will she go through with it?” I grit out. This is one fear that has kept me awake at night. It’s no show of power if the pretty young thing publicly rejects me. Yes, her father would pay the price, but have I set myself up for a bruised ego?

  A head pokes through the doorway, interrupting my clamoring thoughts. It’s a middle-aged woman with neat blonde hair tied back in a bun and pursed red lips. Mountford’s employee.

  She clears her throat, boldly meeting my eye. I like her. Perhaps I’ll offer her a better position with one of my companies.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Taylor. We’ll begin.”

  I nod, my expression calm, even as my throat runs oddly dry. I stride forward, my footsteps echoing off the flagstones, James hurrying behind. As I duck through the chapel doorway, I almost stumble.

  She’s here. She’s already at the altar.

  Of course she is, I chide myself. There are no pews of onlookers to walk between—no loved ones to show off her dress for.

  And what a dress.

  Even at the far end of the aisle, its craftsmanship is clear. Perhaps Lily did not get the wedding of her dreams, but Mountford could not resist spoiling her one last time.

  I’m glad he did. Ivory silk tumbles down her slender body, pooling on the stone floor. The back is cut low, flaunting her pale, delicate skin, the nub of her shoulder blades shifting as she fiddles with her bouquet. If I thought my mouth was dry in the hall, it’s nothing compared to now.

  Those shiny caramel curls, pinned up in intricate braids. That soft, floating veil edged with pearls.

  There is a goddess waiting beside the altar. I want to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness right here. I want to gather the slippery fabric of her gown and kiss the hem; I want to run my palms up those legs, over those rounded hips.

  My feet carry me up the aisle on autopilot. As I near her, I catch a whiff of her scent. She smells like sugar and vanilla, a human cupcake, and my heart seizes in my chest when I remember.

  There is no cake. I did not order a cake. I assumed we’d want to be out of each other’s company as soon as possible. Before seeing her, I’d thought of our wedding with a sour taste in my mouth.

  Now this angel is about to wed and has no cake to cut. No friends in the pews to admire her dress. No bridesmaids to catch her bouquet.

  My blackened heart rends in two.

  “Excuse me,” I grind out and wheel away at the altar, marching to the side of the chapel to make a call. I bark instructions into the phone, my eyes fixed on the woman waiting for me. Her chin dips forward, her shoulders slumping.

  I’m already disappointing her. God, I want to die.

 

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