Bound To The Ruthless Billionaire Proxy

Elsie sat shivering in the backseat as the SUV navigated the winding, tree-lined driveway. The leather seats were freezing against her soaked dress, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to still the violent tremors. Outside the tinted windows, Carlisle Manor rose through the rain like a fortress of gray stone—massive, cold, and utterly uninviting.

Good. Let them think she arrived broken.

The vehicle jerked to a sudden stop. Behind it, the heavy iron gates clashed shut with a loud, final metallic boom. It sounded like a prison door locking. Elsie's jaw tightened, but she forced her breathing to stay even. Not a prison. An entry point.

Before she could unbuckle her seatbelt, the back door was yanked open. A bodyguard reached in, grabbed her by the upper arm, and pulled her out into the cold air. Elsie stumbled onto the pristine stone driveway, her wet shoes slipping. She caught her balance in three quick steps and used that brief moment to lift her gaze.

She catalogued everything in a sweeping glance. Two cameras above the main entrance, angled to cover the drive. A dark, unlit corridor along the east wing, its windows sealed. The glow of what looked like a security office on the second floor, left side. She filed it all away without a flicker of expression.

Hall Ray stood on the massive front porch. He wore a sharp black suit and an earpiece. His gaze landed on her with cold, corporate efficiency, like she was a misdelivered package instead of a human being. June Kelley stepped out from behind him, dressed in a crisp clinical uniform, sterile latex gloves already pulled tight over her fingers. Her face was completely devoid of warmth.

Elsie memorized the name embroidered on the uniform. June Kelley. Medical. Got it.

"Drop the coat," June commanded, her voice sharp and flat.

Elsie hesitated for half a beat—just enough to sell the illusion of fear. Then she let her arms fall to her sides.

June didn't wait. She stepped forward, grabbed the collar of Elsie's wet coat, and forcefully stripped it from her shoulders. The fabric tore slightly at the seam. Cold rain and wind bit into Elsie's bare arms, but she didn't flinch. She fixed her eyes on June's gloved hands, noting the precise, almost mechanical way they moved. Clinical detachment. Institutionalized cruelty. Useful to remember.

June pointed a gloved finger toward a stark, blindingly white antechamber attached to the side of the main manor. "Move."

Elsie was pushed forward. She stumbled into the bright, white room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh against her eyes. The air smelled sharply of bleach and chemical disinfectants—the kind of sterile that burns the back of your throat.

"Hand over your phone and any personal items," June demanded, holding out a plastic evidence bag.

Elsie reached into her small, wet purse and pulled out her phone. The screen was fogged with moisture, unresponsive. She dropped it into the evidence bag without resistance. Then her hand stilled on the purse's zipper. She looked up, meeting June's eyes directly for the first time.

"My mother is in the Blackwood Sanatorium," she said, her voice low and even. "C-wing. I've signed your contract. If her care is interrupted today—in any way—you won't be dealing with my emotions. You'll be dealing with the legal validity of that contract. Make a note."

June's gloved fingers paused, just for a fraction of a second. A tiny hitch in the rhythm. Then she resumed her motion, face still blank. But Elsie had seen it. The name meant something. Or maybe it was the tone. Either way, it was a crack, and she filed that away too.

Hall stepped forward without a word. He took the purse from her hands and tossed it onto a metal counter. The zipper rattled against the steel.

"Strip," June ordered. "Step into the decontamination shower."

The command landed like a slap. Elsie felt heat rise in her chest, the flush of humiliation trying to surface. She let it come—let it burn for exactly three seconds. Then she swallowed it whole, shoved it down into the same place she had buried her grief at the graveside. Fuel. Nothing but fuel.

She reached up and unzipped her wet dress. The fabric fell to the floor in a soggy heap. She didn't look at Hall. He didn't matter. He was a wall, and walls didn't deserve her attention.

She stepped under the showerhead.

The chemical-smelling spray hit her skin. Ice cold. It shocked her system, stealing her breath in a sharp gasp. Her body screamed at her to curl up, to cover herself. She forced her spine straight. Arms at her sides. She stood in the freezing water and stared through the frosted glass panel at June's blurred silhouette. A white coat standing outside the cage. Watching.

They want to strip my identity. Wash away the girl who stood at her father's grave and signed their contract.

Elsie closed her eyes.

Let them wash her away. What's left will be something they can't recognize until it's too late.

Ten agonizing minutes passed. The water shut off automatically with a loud click.

June tossed a pair of sterile, oversized medical scrubs over the top of the partition. Elsie caught them before they hit the wet floor. She dried off with a rough, scratchy towel and pulled on the scrubs. The fabric was stiff and smelled like industrial laundry detergent. It scratched against her skin, but she wore it like borrowed armor. A uniform of the institution. Camouflage.

June opened the inner door and grabbed Elsie's arm again, her grip tight and clinical. She marched her down a long, metallic corridor. Featureless steel walls. No windows. The kind of hallway designed to make you forget which direction you came from. Elsie counted her steps. Twenty-three. Then a right turn. Eleven more steps. She might need to run this route in the dark someday.

They stopped in front of a massive, high-security glass door. A red light blinked on the keypad.

June swiped a keycard. The light turned green. The heavy glass door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, releasing a puff of cool, stale air from the room beyond.

June shoved Elsie hard between the shoulder blades.

Elsie stumbled forward into the dim suite. She caught herself on a small table, its edge digging into her hip. Pain flared, sharp and clarifying. She straightened slowly.

Behind her, the heavy glass door slid shut. It locked with a definitive, mechanical click that echoed through the quiet room.

Elsie stood motionless in the darkness, letting the silence settle around her. The only sound was the slow, heavy thud of her own heart—a clock ticking down, always ticking. She became aware of the ancient, woody smell of the old mansion, the faint draft from a vent somewhere above.

She unclenched her fists. Her palms ached. Four deep crescent marks from her nails were pressed into the skin, red and stinging.

She did not turn on the light.

She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling, toward the invisible sky beyond the stone, toward the fresh grave she had been dragged away from. A silent vow, renewed.

"I'm inside, Dad." Her voice was barely a breath, softer than the draft. "Now it starts."