But maybe that could wait. She let out a laugh as his facial scruff tickled her neck. “I love you so much,” she said softly and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  And she did. She wouldn’t have killed Hugh for them if she didn’t.

  One day, Trent would appreciate it enough for her to tell him the truth. He’d understand the mental release that it gave him—that it gave them both. The future tragedies and agony that it saved them from. There had been no possibility of a successful future for Trent, as things had been. The guilt from Hugh’s actions had been an anchor that had kept dragging him into drinking and drugs. Without it, he would succeed.

  She knew it, just like she’d known what she had to do when she had passed by the guesthouse and almost walked into that unexpected situation. Hugh hadn’t seen her on the porch, and she had cracked the front door, then ducked into the guesthouse and listened. He’d never noticed. He’d been too focused on the woman in front of him, too absorbed in his gloating monologue detailing how and why she had ended up here and what he had done to so many women in her position.

  As she had watched, he’d stabbed the woman a third time, then a fourth. The man she loved. The man she lived with, whose ring was on her finger. Stabbing a woman without hesitation, despite the muffled screams, the bulge of her eyes.

  His tools had been laid out on the kitchen counter. Knives. A gun. A hammer. Bolt cutters. She had silently eased her way behind him and picked up the gun. A .38 special, a revolver that she’d handled dozens, if not hundreds, of times during filming and weapons training. She walked up beside him and pressed the muzzle to the side of that beautiful head.

  It had been hard to pull the trigger. The man had been so damn smart. So savvy. He hadn’t had Trent’s passion, but he’d had precision and calculation and planning, and she had loved that. She would miss Sunday crossword puzzles on the balcony and strategy sessions and contract negotiations and script analyses.

  She’d fired before he had a chance to react, and he’d fallen to his knees, then pitched backward. She had pulled off his glove, put it on her own hand, then turned in a slow circle, looking for somewhere to pull the trigger without the chance of the bullet being found.

  She decided on the guest room bed and pulled back the sheets and mattress cover, fired the second bullet into the soft mattress, then reassembled the bed. Returning to the room, she worked the glove back onto his hand and put the gun near it. She turned to face the woman.

  She was dead, her eyes wide and still, her face wrenched in pain. Nora looked away quickly, then closed her eyes and ticked through all the possible trip points.

  The details, Hugh had always taught her, were what cinched an act. Minor details that sold the big picture.

  Like the gunshot residue that would now be on his glove.

  The bed that would never be looked at twice by the police.

  The Xanax that she would put in Trent’s drink when she returned upstairs to him.

  The scene that she checked a second and third time, making sure that no evidence went unconsidered.

  Nora had spent hours in bed that night, analyzing the options and potential paths of action. She formulated one that would give Trent the life he wanted and keep her fairy-tale love story in place.

  It hadn’t worked out. Trent hadn’t played the game, not to its finale. But that was okay because she could make this new scenario work. She could write a new script. A new love story, one he would star in, the beautiful and heartbroken couple who found solace and comfort in each other when mourning a terrible loss.

  It could work. It could play.

  She would build the role, and all he would need to do was act the part and smile for the cameras.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The wedding of the century is happening in a few short months, but the groom has done a switcheroo. In a plot twist worthy of any Hollywood blockbuster, Nora Kemp is still wearing her six-carat diamond ring, will still be clad in bridal couture, but will now walk down the aisle to Trent Iverson, her dead fiancé’s twin brother—and the future stepfather/uncle of her child.

  Social media is divided over their opinions on the subject, with half swooning over the unconventional love story while Hugh loyalists scream their outrage over the supposed betrayal. In Nora’s defense, her original relationship did seem to have a few cracks—mainly, the dead bodies stacking up in Hugh’s spare time. His serial kills made Trent Iverson (Story Farm, Galaxy’s Own) look stable, despite his history of drug and alcohol abuse.

  Anticipated by cheerers and jeerers alike, the wedding will be one of the most-watched events of the century and will cement Nora Kemp—soon to be Iverson—on the throne as the reigning queen of Hollywood.

  Juliann Frank, The Hollywood Gossip

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes a village to raise a child, and almost as many people to get a book into a reader’s hands. This book was nearly a year in the making, and I must first start by thanking Megha Parekh, for never giving up on me, no matter how many crazy plot ideas I send her way for consideration. Additional kudos to my agent, Maura Kye-Casella, who has been by my side for a decade now and never fails to champion me and my stories.

  The first draft of this book . . . I laugh when I think back on it, because only my trusty alpha reader Tricia Crouch saw that one. After finishing it, reading it a few times, and giving myself a generous (and completely undeserved) pat on the back, I realized the awful truth—it needed to be trashed. All of it. The entire novel, pitched toward the can.

  I reached out to the lovely Megha, who was kind enough to grant me a generous extension (I’m still beaming with gratitude for that!), and I started back at the beginning—with the same story but told in a different way. A much better way. A way that you, dear reader, will never see. One with black market organ sales (yes, really!) and a completely different story line for Miles. You were saved from the fate of that draft by Charlotte Herscher, who is brilliant at locksmithing a plot and steered me to a more satisfying (and believable) plotline, one that came together really nicely in the end.

  Additional thanks to Tamara Arellano and her team of wordsmiths, including Kellie and Tara W. I’m so happy that this book has a home with the Thomas & Mercer team and Amazon Publishing, and would like to send verbal cookies and chocolates to the marketing, design, formatting, and executive teams. You are all so talented, kind, and wonderful to work with. Thank you for making every experience a pleasure.

  And to the team behind me—thank you to my fabulous husband, who never runs out of patience, support, or Dr Peppers. You and the rest of the family keep me sane and happy and let me keep the drama and the killings in the book. Thank you.

  Lastly, the readers. Thank you for picking up this book when there are so many incredible options to choose from. I hope you enjoyed it. It was so much fun to write (and edit and edit again), and even though I spent twice as much time in this world as I did in some of my others, I still wasn’t (and am not) quite ready to leave it. Thank you for your support, which allows me to create stories for a living. If you’d like to get updates on what I’m working on next, please visit www.alessandratorre.com/newsletter and sign up for my free email updates.

  Until the next novel . . .

  Alessandra (A. R.) Torre

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2022 Jane Ashley Converse

  A. R. Torre is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Alessandra Torre. She has been featured in such publications as ELLE and ELLE UK and has guest-blogged for Cosmopolitan and the Huffington Post. In addition, Torre is the creator of Alessandra Torre Ink, a website, community, and online school for aspiring authors. Learn more at www.alessandratorre.com.

 

 

  A. R. Torre, A Fatal Affair

 

 

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