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The Fake Duchess: Married to The Architect Of Graves

Waffly_Witch
My sister, Linnea, fled with her lover on my wedding day. To save our family from the executioner’s block, my father shoved me into her veil. I was sent to marry Dacre Rourke – a man they call the Architect of Graves. They say he sketches the demises of his enemies with terrifying patience. They say he murdered his first wife. I walked into his bedchamber prepared to die. Instead, he tossed a dagger on the table. “I know you aren't Linnea,” the terrifying Duke murmured. “Let's negotiate, little thief.” He didn’t want a wife; he needed a fake bride to hide his treason from the Emperor. I needed his gold to disappear. A perfect contract: Six months. No touching. No feelings. But Dacre didn’t just want an actress. He wanted me. “You came here to steal my gold, Eiran Locke,” he whispered, backing me against the wall, his eyes dark with an obsessive hunger. “But I’m keeping you.”
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