Widow (A Woman Scorned #3)

Prologue

Maurelle

The sounds of grunting and choking erupted from his body as he clasped his swollen fat fingers at his throat. His face was turning purple, foam gathering in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide with fear, as he looked at me for help.

Again.

Just like the time before this, and every time before that, I felt nothing as I watched them fall to their knees, still trying to gasp for air.

His hand swept out to grab the bottle of water on the bench.

The choking was getting worse, a wheezing sound beginning to take over.

I grasped the water bottle and held it just out of reach as he looked up at me.

The knowledge of what I had done registered in his red and puffy eyes as it dawned on him what was happening, and who had done it to him.

All of those warnings from his friends and family, everything came over him as he realized I was the one who would take his life.

I was the one who would receive his money, and leave his family destitute.

I was the black widow everyone tried to tell him about, but he only had his eye on the prize. The one that men lost all rational thought over.

The little triangle between my legs, just like all of them. They all became stupid when it came to a woman naked.

He tried to reach out to me, to grab onto my skirt for help but I simply stepped back, watching as he collapsed on the floor.

He fell face first, a grunt erupting from him as his breathing became even more labored.

I hooked my foot under his arm and shoved him onto his back, watching as his breathing slowed.

His eyes were starting to get that far away look which told me it was almost time to call the ambulance.

I couldn’t risk them actually resuscitating him, but once he wheezed his last breath, they wouldn’t get here in enough time to do that.

I cleared the kitchen, removing everything I could find that looked out of place.

Grabbing the glass he’d drunk from, I made sure to put it next to the bottle he’d found in the refrigerator, and grabbed the note I'd made, placing it next to the bottle.

I stepped outside, grabbed my martini glass and downed the rest of my beverage before I heaved out a sigh, getting ready for the act I was about to put on.

Taking a deep breath, I worked myself up, dropping my glass at the door to the kitchen and walking over to his body.

I put my hand down on his chest, just as someone who would love him would do when finding their husband dead.

I forced the tears down my cheeks, making sure plenty of them were falling by the time I stood up and grabbed the phone.

I let out a blood curdling scream as I dialed 9-1-1.

It was showtime.