Married To The Fake Comatose Billionaire

The Lincoln glided to a stop in front of a massive, baroque-style fountain. Water cascaded over marble statues, the sound heavy and rhythmic. A valet in white gloves pulled Justice's door open. She stepped out, her cheap canvas shoes hitting the pristine cobblestones. Derek and Meredith scrambled out of the other side. The anger on their faces vanished, instantly replaced by sickeningly sweet, subservient smiles. A butler in a tailored suit bowed slightly and led them up the wide marble steps. They entered a foyer with ceilings so high it made the air feel thin. Priceless oil paintings stared down from the walls. Standing on the landing of the sweeping grand staircase was Eleonora Aguirre. She leaned heavily on a silver-handled cane. Her white hair was pulled back into a severe knot. Her eyes, sharp as shattered glass, swept over the group. They skipped Derek entirely. They locked onto Justice. Eleonora's knuckles turned white around the silver handle of her cane. She descended the stairs slowly, the cane clicking against the marble. Derek stepped forward, extending his hand, his smile stretching his cheeks tight. "Mrs. Aguirre, it is an honor-" Eleonora walked right past him. The draft of her movement made Derek flinch. She stopped inches from Justice. She studied Justice's face, her eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the shape of her eyes. "Come with me," Eleonora commanded. Her voice was raspy, carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Only you." Derek swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He grabbed Meredith's arm and pulled her back, nodding frantically. Justice followed Eleonora down a long, dimly lit corridor. The air grew colder. They stopped in front of a heavy steel door. A red laser swept across Eleonora's eye. The door hissed open, breaking the seal. They stepped into a massive medical suite. It looked like a top-tier ICU, sterile and bright. Machines beeped in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Justice walked toward the bed in the center of the room. Auguste Aguirre lay under a thin white sheet. His face was sculpted, flawless, and pale. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. His chest rose and fell with mechanical precision. Justice stopped at the side of the bed. Her eyes flicked to the monitors. Heart rate: 60. Blood pressure: 110/70. Brain waves: slow, steady theta waves. To anyone else, it was the chart of a man in a deep coma. But Justice's eyes narrowed. The intervals between the heartbeats were too perfect. The respiratory rate had a micro-stutter every fourth breath-a conscious attempt to mimic a ventilator's rhythm. He was faking it. Justice looked down at Auguste's face. She took a half-step forward. Her canvas shoe swung out and slammed hard into the metal caster wheel of the hospital bed. The heavy clank echoed in the sterile room. Justice stared intently at Auguste's face. His eyelids remained perfectly still, but her trained eyes caught it-the pupils beneath the thin skin of his closed lids underwent a microscopic contraction, a pure, uncontrollable physiological reaction to the sudden acoustic shock. Justice's stomach tightened with dark amusement. The billionaire was playing dead. She reached out. Her cold fingers brushed against the back of Auguste's hand, which rested on top of the sheet. As her skin made contact, Justice shifted her thumb. She found the web of muscle between his thumb and index finger-the Hegu acupoint. She pressed her nail in, applying a highly calculated, agonizing pressure. A jolt of pure nerve pain shot up Auguste's arm. He was exceptionally disciplined, but biology was biology. Instead of a violent jerk, the subcutaneous muscle tissue near the acupoint underwent a rapid, almost invisible micro-spasm. It didn't lift his finger, but the subtle, rigid vibration against her thumb was undeniable. Behind them, Eleonora dropped her cane. It hit the floor with a deafening clatter. Eleonora gasped, her hands flying to her chest. She was shaking violently. The attending doctor rushed forward, his eyes glued to the monitor. "Neurological reflex," the doctor breathed out, his voice trembling. "He reacted to touch." Eleonora lunged forward. She grabbed Justice's hand, her fingers digging into Justice's skin. Tears spilled over her wrinkled cheeks. "You," Eleonora sobbed, her chest heaving. "You are the miracle. You brought him back." Under the sheet, Auguste's jaw muscles locked so tight his teeth ached. He wanted to strangle the woman standing over him. Justice looked at Eleonora's tear-stained face, then down at the man pretending to be a corpse. Justice flipped her hand over and squeezed Eleonora's trembling fingers. "I'm here now," Justice said softly. As Eleonora composed herself, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, a young footman appeared in the corridor behind them. In his hands, he carried a faded, canvas backpack—the same one that had been retrieved from the trunk of Derek's Lincoln by the estate's security team. It was standard protocol; all luggage was to be inspected and delivered to guest quarters. The footman caught the butler's eye and gave a slight nod, indicating the item was clean and had been scanned, before carrying it silently toward the guest wing.