"You're pulling it too much; I told you already. Are you deaf?" I shout at my assistant as she tries to pull the wedding dress tighter. I can't bloody breathe and that stupid bitch is not listening to my instructions. My mother— and sister—in—law should have been here ages ago, but they are stuck in traffic, and I have to rely on useless people like Caroline. I'm in one of the best hotels in Bristol, trying to get ready for my third wedding, but so far everyone keeps letting me down. My assistant exhales sharply, then stares back at me with that pathetic expression on her face like it's my fault that her life is miserable.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Harrison. You asked me to pull it tight," she blurts out.

"No, I didn't. Anyway just leave it," I snap, wondering how much more I would have to pay people to get something done.

This day is supposed to be the happiest moment in my life, but everyone keeps messing things up. I'm alone in my hotel room and the ceremony starts in forty—five minutes. John, my fiancé, gave me access to his account and told me to spend whatever I needed. He proposed after only six months, and since then my life has done a 180—degree turnaround.

I'm six foot one, with blond hair and a stunning body. My last husband paid for my boob job, Botox and a few other surgeries, and as far as I'm concerned all these operations were worth every penny. He always told me that he liked women with a D cup. Curtis has been dead a year now, and frankly, every minute without him has been a blessing, because I couldn't stand the old bastard.

I was seventeen when I discovered that nature had blessed me with beauty and a rocking body. I have pearl—blue eyes and had been dyeing my horrible red hair since I was twelve. I am prettier than most women in this world; my beauty is refined and men like what they see. My wardrobe is filled with the most expensive clothing. I never buy anything cheap; I like quality, not quantity. John pays for everything, so it's not a problem. I poisoned my last husband and the one before that. There is a saying that the third time's the charm.

"I'm thirsty, Caroline. Get me some champagne," I add with my usual superior tone, tired of her already. I think it's time to find someone else. I glance at the clock, wondering if my mother—in—law is going to get here on time. She doesn't like me much and has been nosing around, asking questions. I've done well to cover all my tracks from the past. A few thousand pounds gave me a new identity, so no one would ask uncomfortable questions. It's easier that way.

"All right, Mrs. Harrison," Caroline snaps back and leaves without saying any more, shutting the door behind her. She will wait for her wages a bit longer than she should this month, only because she needs to learn how to treat me with respect. No one snaps at me.

My last husband, Curtis, was twenty years older than me, but I still managed to wrap him around my little finger, so I always got what I wanted. A year with him gave me enough time to realise how much money he really had. His sons were trying to convince him that I only married him for the money, but he never believed them, poor old dead man.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder if John will like my wedding dress. It was designed in Paris and it cost around twenty thousand pounds. Money doesn't matter to him, as long as I'm happy.

I had been living in Bristol only a few months. Once I was settled and made sure that no one was looking for me, I started going out again. This time around I ditched the business meetings. I didn't want to get married to another old guy. I was thirty years old and I wanted to find a real love. Then, during a very wild night out in one of the London clubs, I bumped into John. He was sweet, charming, and handsome. Later I found out he ran an oil and gas company, one of the largest in the UK. There was a spark between us almost instantly. We talked through the whole night. Then he asked me out the next day. I stuck to my act: an orphan girl who'd made a new life for herself in Bristol. He believed me when I explained that I was between jobs. For the first time in my life I was in love. All the hard work, the lies, and the cheating paid off. I'd met the most perfect man—and in exactly forty minutes he was going to marry me.

I smile at my own reflection in the mirror, feeling calm but nervous. My foster mother always said that I would never get anywhere. I hope that ugly monster has died of cancer by now. She was a pathetic, lying bitch who treated me like a slave.

Straight after the ceremony we are going to Dubai for our honeymoon. The past few months have been stressful, with all the wedding preparations and the pretense of being that lost soul in a big city. John has been treating me like a princess. I convinced him that I would find a job as soon as we came back, and he agreed. He doesn't want me to stress over the fact that I'm not earning.

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. That's why I need help, to get someone to open the door for me, but my stuck—up mother—in—law is not here yet, so I have to do it myself. I press the handle and push the door ajar a little to make sure that it's not John. Apparently it's bad luck if the groom sees the bride before the wedding. Fortunately it's a waitress with the champagne.

"Come in. Hurry up before anyone spots me," I bark at her and she walks in and drops the glass on the floor and slams the bottle on the table.

"Be careful! You could have ruined my dress!" I shout, losing my patience again.

The girl, who is in her twenties, goes ruby red in an instant, then picks up the glass from the floor, looking scared.

"I'm sorry, miss," she mumbles in a strong Eastern European accent. Of course she can't do the job right—she is a foreigner. I thought such a posh hotel wouldn't employ people like that. John is paying nearly five hundred pounds for the night. I look at the champagne and don't recognise the label. My pulse starts racing and the words flow out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"You stupid girl, what did you bring me? I only drink the best champagne that your hotel has on offer. Take this crap and bring me the most expensive bottle. I'm getting married in half an hour!"

I'm shaking with anger, knowing that deep down I shouldn't be so nasty, but useless people like this are driving me insane. This room should be full of wedding guests, jumping up and down and doing whatever I ask them to. Instead I'm alone, sorting out everything in the last minute.

The blond girl mumbles something that I don't understand, picks up the champagne and leaves, apologising again. My heart is pounding in my chest once she closes the door.

"It looks like I have to do everything myself, because everyone is too stupid to understand simple instructions," I mutter to myself. I go back to stand in front of the mirror, breathing hard. I lift my head to double—check my reflection and I let go of a terrified scream. There is a man behind me.

I turn around abruptly with my heart in my throat.

"Who are you? How did you get into my room?" I shout, backing off towards the door.

"You weren't very nice to that waitress, Poppy," he says, staring back at me. I don't know what's going on. Is this supposed to be a joke? One of my bridesmaids, Sian, thinks she's funny? Then I realise he called me Poppy. That is my real name, but no one knows it. It's the name I buried a long time ago in the past.

I get to the door and try to open it, but it looks like someone has magically locked it from the outside. First of all, I have to calm down. There is no point getting stressed over this. I turn around and glance at the man, trying see if I know him at all. He is tall, much taller than me. Possibly six foot eight, wearing a black suit with black shirt and tie. He is dark—haired with the darkest eyes that I have ever seen in my life. My head starts to spin and an icy shiver crawls down my spine, my nipples grow erect, and I panic, moving closer to the door.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask again, my voice breaking, feeling hot and cold at the same time. He doesn't move and continues watching me with that dark, penetrating gaze like he knows all my secrets. His olive skin expands with heat. He is much handsomer than any other man I've ever met, with a striking, glowing aura. Normally I can handle any man, toss my hair and flutter my eyelashes, but this stranger in my room strips down all my confidence, takes away the power I have over anyone else, and makes me feel weak and lost.

"I'm Dimitrious and I'm here to take you back to hell," he says in a low, seductive voice that scares the hell out of me.

I try to swallow, straightening my back, narrowing my eyes on him. It's bad enough that he's seen me in my wedding dress. Any other man would lose the attitude or laugh, but he just keeps staring back, unaffected by my anger.

"Is this supposed to be a pre—wedding joke or something?" I ask in a barely audible voice.

The corners of his mouth lift in a smile. "Oh, Poppy, we can keep playing this game, but I'm in a hurry and don't like to waste my time. The Divine One asked for your soul, so you must die. You lied, killed, cheated and ruined other people's lives. It's time for you to come with me."

It takes me a moment to go over what he said. He looks perfectly serious, igniting fear in my stomach, but I'm never scared of anything or anyone. I'm starting to sweat, feeling like all of a sudden the room is too small; the walls are closing in on me. Is he telling me that he is some sort of dark angel sent from hell to get me? Does he expect me to believe this bullshit? He is probably one of those guys that discovered my real identity and wants to blackmail me to give him some cash. This is the only reasonable explanation.

I clear my throat, trying to regain my superior expression, but my hands are shaking.

"How much money do you want?" I ask.

"Your first husband—Edward Donovan. You slipped poison into his Scotch, after you made him sign all his money over to you. Then you met your second husband, Curtis Owens. For a year you kept putting arsenic into his food. Eventually he had a stroke. The police didn't suspect anything because you used a different name. Then you moved to Bristol as someone else. You never showed any remorse over what you've done. So, Poppy Kowalsky, it's time to pay your debt. It's time for you to die."

His words strike me in the gut like a razor. I moisten my lips, switching my weight to the side. "This is absurd. I don't know where you got this information from, but none of it is true."

This super—hot but arrogant stranger with the most obscure name sighs and then, with a snap of his fingers, my superior hotel room disappears and I find myself outside, standing on the roof of the skyscraper, about to fall down. The wind is blowing my hair all over the place, knocking the air out of my lungs. Dimitrious is holding my hand as we stand on the edge. Fear, deep and sharp, punches right through me, and in that short moment the realisation of my upcoming death slams into me. Dimitrious's face is calm; there is utter determination in his black eyes. In a matter of seconds he will drop me off and I will fall. I want to scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth.

"You're going to die, Poppy. You never wanted to change or pay for what you've done," he says in a deep voice.

"Wait ... wait, please. If you're the messenger, then there must be another way. Please, I'll do anything, anything you want," I scream, gripping his hand tighter, knowing that my bare feet are slipping and my heavy designer wedding dress is pulling me down. My heart practically stops and in that last moment I regret who I have become. This isn't a dream. I'm really going to die for what I have done.

His pinches his eyebrows together, measuring my words, and I know that it's my only chance to bargain for my life.

"And why would I want to spare you? I have dozens of souls that I'm going to take away," he adds. "The Divine One needs to restore the balance."

"Please, I'll work for you. You don't have to kill me. I can be useful ... oh God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm such a coward."

A shadow of doubt passes through his black eyes. He keeps looking at me, penetrating deeper than anyone else ever has, reminding me of the time when the kids at school laughed at me because I had holes in my jumper. I felt so hopeless and unhappy.

Then he pulls away and I'm screaming, falling down the building. My life is passing in front of my eyes: my foster family, my boyfriends, school. In a matter of seconds I won't have to feel any pain, so I close my eyes and wait.