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Word quickly spread across Moonglade that the newlywed heiress hadn’t died, but rather she’d been poisoned by her lumpish pignut of a husband, who fled the village before the truth of her survival came to light.

But the heiress had a secret. That foiled murderer himself was no longer alive.

She kept his rotting corpse in her cemetery garden, where it remained beneath a thriving black baccara rose, a reminder to the heiress not to ever take anything in this life for granted.

That tomorrow is promised to no one. It served as a remembrance to love and cherish those she held most dear, including the man whom a tea leaf fortune predicted would someday come to be her true love.

The man who was now her beloved husband.