Chapter 1
I died on my wedding anniversary.
My husband poured the wine. His mistress watched me choke. I collapsed on cold marble—and woke up in the morgue with numbers burning above every head I saw.
The fluorescent lights buzzed. A zipper sealed me inside a body bag.
I clawed my way out—gasping, trembling, alive.
The morgue attendant screamed and stumbled backward. Above his head, a glowing number pulsed: **12**.
Twelve what? I didn't understand yet.
But I would. Very soon.
My name is Vivian Ashford. Twenty-six. Married to Dominic Hale for three years.
He pursued me relentlessly in college—flowers every morning, love letters slipped under my door, grand gestures that made every girl on campus jealous.
I thought I was the luckiest woman alive.
Turns out, I was the most foolish.
I staggered out of the hospital's basement morgue in nothing but a thin gown, barefoot on frozen asphalt.
My phone was gone. My purse—gone. Everything stripped from me like I'd never existed.
I made it six blocks before I collapsed in front of a convenience store.
The clerk rushed out. Above her head: **3**.
She gave me water, a blanket, let me use her phone.
I called the only number I remembered—my husband's.
It rang once. Twice.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Breathless. Laughing.
My stepsister. Camille.
"Dominic's in the shower," she purred. "Can I take a message?"
The line went dead.
I sat on that curb, shaking—not from cold, but from the memory that crashed into me like a freight train.
Our anniversary dinner. The private room at Lumière. Dominic handed me a glass of Bordeaux, eyes soft with what I thought was love.
"To three perfect years," he'd whispered.
I drank. Smiled. Then—fire in my throat. My lungs seizing. Vision going black.
The last thing I saw before I died?
Camille stepping out from behind the curtain, arm sliding around Dominic's waist.
And him—looking down at me with nothing but cold, calculated relief.
Now I understood.
He'd killed me.
And they both thought I was still dead.
I had nowhere to go. No money, no ID, no proof I was even alive.
So I walked.
For three hours, I walked through the city like a ghost—watching those glowing numbers hover above every stranger's head.
A businessman on his phone: **45**.
A teenager kicking a stray cat: **22**.
A mother holding her child's hand: **1**.
I didn't know what the numbers meant—not precisely. But something deep in my gut told me:
The higher the number, the darker the soul.
By dawn, I found myself outside the Obsidian Tower—headquarters of the Kessler empire.
Everyone in this city knew the name.
Roman Kessler. The Devil of Wall Street. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Untouchable.
Rumors said he'd buried three rivals—literally.
They said he smiled while he did it.
They said crossing him was a death sentence.
I didn't plan to go inside. But my legs gave out on the steps.
Security appeared instantly. Two massive men in black.
I looked up at them: **14**. **18**.
Not saints. But not monsters.
"Ma'am, you can't—"
A voice cut through the cold morning air. Deep. Commanding. Final.
"Let her in."
I raised my head.
Roman Kessler stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by gold.
Tailored black coat. Silver cufflinks catching the light. Eyes so dark they swallowed the dawn.
And above his head?
**0**.
Zero.
The most feared man in the city—the one they called a devil—had a sin score of zero.
---
My husband poured the wine. His mistress watched me choke. I collapsed on cold marble—and woke up in the morgue with numbers burning above every head I saw.
The fluorescent lights buzzed. A zipper sealed me inside a body bag.
I clawed my way out—gasping, trembling, alive.
The morgue attendant screamed and stumbled backward. Above his head, a glowing number pulsed: **12**.
Twelve what? I didn't understand yet.
But I would. Very soon.
My name is Vivian Ashford. Twenty-six. Married to Dominic Hale for three years.
He pursued me relentlessly in college—flowers every morning, love letters slipped under my door, grand gestures that made every girl on campus jealous.
I thought I was the luckiest woman alive.
Turns out, I was the most foolish.
I staggered out of the hospital's basement morgue in nothing but a thin gown, barefoot on frozen asphalt.
My phone was gone. My purse—gone. Everything stripped from me like I'd never existed.
I made it six blocks before I collapsed in front of a convenience store.
The clerk rushed out. Above her head: **3**.
She gave me water, a blanket, let me use her phone.
I called the only number I remembered—my husband's.
It rang once. Twice.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Breathless. Laughing.
My stepsister. Camille.
"Dominic's in the shower," she purred. "Can I take a message?"
The line went dead.
I sat on that curb, shaking—not from cold, but from the memory that crashed into me like a freight train.
Our anniversary dinner. The private room at Lumière. Dominic handed me a glass of Bordeaux, eyes soft with what I thought was love.
"To three perfect years," he'd whispered.
I drank. Smiled. Then—fire in my throat. My lungs seizing. Vision going black.
The last thing I saw before I died?
Camille stepping out from behind the curtain, arm sliding around Dominic's waist.
And him—looking down at me with nothing but cold, calculated relief.
Now I understood.
He'd killed me.
And they both thought I was still dead.
I had nowhere to go. No money, no ID, no proof I was even alive.
So I walked.
For three hours, I walked through the city like a ghost—watching those glowing numbers hover above every stranger's head.
A businessman on his phone: **45**.
A teenager kicking a stray cat: **22**.
A mother holding her child's hand: **1**.
I didn't know what the numbers meant—not precisely. But something deep in my gut told me:
The higher the number, the darker the soul.
By dawn, I found myself outside the Obsidian Tower—headquarters of the Kessler empire.
Everyone in this city knew the name.
Roman Kessler. The Devil of Wall Street. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Untouchable.
Rumors said he'd buried three rivals—literally.
They said he smiled while he did it.
They said crossing him was a death sentence.
I didn't plan to go inside. But my legs gave out on the steps.
Security appeared instantly. Two massive men in black.
I looked up at them: **14**. **18**.
Not saints. But not monsters.
"Ma'am, you can't—"
A voice cut through the cold morning air. Deep. Commanding. Final.
"Let her in."
I raised my head.
Roman Kessler stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by gold.
Tailored black coat. Silver cufflinks catching the light. Eyes so dark they swallowed the dawn.
And above his head?
**0**.
Zero.
The most feared man in the city—the one they called a devil—had a sin score of zero.
---