He Married Me for Revenge, Not Love1.
On the day she married the impoverished student his father had sponsored for eight years, Linnea Carrington received a wedding she would never forget—though she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could.
The wedding march she had carefully chosen was replaced by the desperate screams of her father, broadcast live as he dangled from a helicopter.
When they exchanged rings, the box did not hold gold bands but two severed fragments of her mother’s pinky fingers.
On the massive screen, the sweet montage she had spent three sleepless nights editing vanished, replaced by a high-definition, uncensored private video of her and Soren Duvall.
She watched her father fight free of his bindings only to plunge hundreds of meters, his body shattering on impact.
Her mother, shrieking and unconscious, tumbled down the church steps—blood pooling at Linnea’s feet, soaking into her wedding gown.
Linnea screamed until her voice frayed, until all she could force out was one broken word.
“Soren… why…”
Why had the man she’d loved for three years become the executioner who destroyed her family? Why ruin her life on the day she was closest to happiness?
Soren’s gaze was black ice.
He drew his gun, pressing the muzzle against her temple.
“Do you remember Ellie Duvall? The girl you bullied—the one who killed herself? She was my sister.”
His voice was low, steady, lethal. “I never loved you. From the beginning, I was here for revenge.”
His finger tightened on the trigger—then stilled.
Death, he said, would be too merciful. He wanted her alive. Alive to suffer, to endure the same hell he had for eight years.
Until death, there would be no peace.
In public, he played the doting husband, admired by society. In private, he forced her to kneel before his sister’s memorial tablet day and night, stripping her of all dignity.
“Unless you die,” he told her, “this never ends.”
But Linnea truly was dying.
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“Miss Carrington, advanced leukemia is agony,” the doctor had said. “If you refuse treatment…”
She’d vomited blood into the sink that morning, staring at the pale, hollow-eyed stranger in the mirror—a far cry from the Red Rose Linnea who had once ruled Kingsport’s social scene.
Five years of marriage to Soren had drained the color from her life, her body, her soul.
She wiped her tears and smiled bitterly. Pain? She had forgotten what it meant not to hurt.