Chapter 2 - THE GILDED CAGE: STEPPING INTO THE WEXLER ESTATE AS A MAFIA BRIDE
Less than twenty-four hours later, Abigail Preston found herself standing in the cavernous, marble-tiled foyer of the Wexler estate overlooking the Delaware River.
The transformation was dizzying.
Gone were her worn Temple sweatshirt, her flour-dusted jeans, and the cramped, peeling wallpaper of her father’s rowhouse.
In their place was a custom-tailored, floor-length ivory silk wedding gown that hugged her slender frame, glittering with subtle diamond threads woven into the bodice. Her hair had been styled by professionals into an elegant chignon, and her makeup masked the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes.
She wasn't a wife; she was a trophy purchased at a half-million-dollar discount.
The wedding ceremony had been a chillingly brief, surreal affair held in the private chapel of the estate. No guests from her side—her father had been strictly forbidden from attending, though the stranger assured her the mortgage was paid and the children were safe. Only a dozen stone-faced enforcers in tailored suits had stood witness as a bribed judge pronounced her and Simon Wexler man and wife.
Now, the reception had ended, the enforcers had dispersed to their posts, and the heavy oak doors of the master suite clicked shut behind them.
Abigail stood in the center of the sprawling bedroom, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Simon Wexler walked slowly toward the wet bar in the corner of the room, pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass.
He was thirty-two years old, standing over six feet tall, with broad shoulders encased in a black velvet tuxedo jacket. His dark hair was combed back sharply, and his striking, angular face bore the faint, jagged scar of a razor blade along his jawline—a permanent reminder of the violent waterfront wars that had crowned him the undisputed king of Philadelphia’s criminal underworld.
He took a slow sip of his drink, his obsidian eyes tracking every micro-movement of her body.
“You haven't said a word since we left the chapel, Abigail,” Simon said, his voice deep, gravelly, and carrying an effortless, terrifying authority. “Are you regretting your father’s bargain already?”
Abigail forced her chin up, refusing to shrink under his gaze. She had spent the entire day building a wall of ice around her emotions. “I was wondering when the interrogation would begin. I assume you didn't buy me just to look at the scenery.”
Simon let out a low, humorless chuckle, swirling the bourbon in his glass. He walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug, stopping just a foot away. The scent of cedar, cologne, and expensive whiskey washed over her.
“Buy you?” Simon tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Your father’s debt was four hundred and eighty thousand dollars. In this city, I could have bought ten women for that price, and all of them would have been far more compliant than you.”
Abigail didn't blink. “Then why me? Why the theatrical wedding? Why not just throw my father in the Delaware River and take the house?”
Simon reached out, his long fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her veil. The touch was feather-light, yet she instinctively tensed.
“Because a dead contractor doesn't pay off a principle, and a ruined family creates noise,” Simon murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. “And Simon Wexler hates noise. I wanted a wife who understood the cost of disobedience. Your father made his bed; you agreed to lie in it.”
He stepped closer, closing the tiny gap between them.
“On the night Abigail Preston married the most feared man on Philadelphia’s waterfront,” Simon whispered against her ear, “her new husband entered the bedroom believing there was one thing he would never have to worry about.”
Abigail’s breath hitched. “And what’s that?”
“Your innocence,” Simon answered, his hand moving to grip the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the silk ribbons of her hair. “Your father swore to my men that you were a sheltered, exhausted little baker who had never looked at a man twice, let alone understood the dark realities of the world. He told me you were pure, untouched, and utterly terrified of my shadow.”
Abigail’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Her innocence.
That was the lie her father had sold to seal the bargain. Walter Preston, desperate to save his own skin and preserve his suburban respectability, had painted his eldest daughter as a naive, fragile virgin traded into bondage.
Simon pulled her flush against his chest, his obsidian eyes burning into hers. “He told me you’d cry yourself to sleep every night, begging for mercy. He told me you’d need breaking.”
A cold, dangerous smirk touched the corners of Abigail’s lips—a microscopic twitch of expression that Simon Wexler, for all his terrifying intuition, completely missed.
“And do you think I need breaking, Simon?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave, losing every trace of the trembling baker’s daughter she had pretended to be.
May you like
Simon paused, his hand tightening on her neck as he sensed the subtle, seismic shift in her posture. The fearful captive he expected was gone. In her place stood something far sharper, far colder, and infinitely more dangerous.
“By sunrise,” Simon whispered, his voice dark with a mixture of suspicion and sudden, electric fascination, “we’re going to find out just how much of a liar your father really was.”
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