Pampered By The Cold Mind Reading Tycoon

Elba forced her heavy eyelids open. The harsh afternoon sunlight pouring through the hospital window stabbed at her retinas. She raised a weak, trembling hand to block the glare. Her throat felt like it was coated in dry sand. A tall shadow instantly eclipsed the light. Angelo stood up from the custom leather sofa. His broad shoulders blocked the window entirely, casting a dark, suffocating presence over the hospital bed. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his posture rigid. "Are you done playing dead?" Angelo's voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "Is this your new strategy to avoid taking responsibility for pushing Georgina down the stairs?" Elba's chest tightened. She couldn't form words through her parched throat. She shrank back against the pillows, pulling her shoulders inward, her eyes wide with defensive panic. Angelo let out a harsh breath through his nose. He reached out and slammed his finger onto the nurse call button above her bed. Elba watched his broad back. A sudden, violent rush of images flooded her brain-a horrific vision from her coma. The destruction of the Potter family. Her own miserable death. It wasn't a memory, but a terrifying prophecy. It was all going to be real. This stupid brother, Elba thought, her internal voice screaming in the silence of her mind. He's still yelling at me for that fake heiress Georgina. He doesn't even know he's going to be framed and sent to federal prison next month! Angelo's finger froze on the plastic button. His knuckles turned stark white. He whipped his head around. His sharp, dark eyes locked onto Elba's face. He scanned the room, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Elba felt a cold sweat break out on her neck. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut, pretending to sleep, her breathing erratic. Angelo looked at the empty corners of the VIP room. There were no speakers. No other people. His pulse hammered against his ribs. The Potter Group is going to file for bankruptcy because of forged financial statements, Elba complained in her head, keeping her eyes clamped shut. Angelo is just the pathetic Wall Street scapegoat. The words rang crystal clear inside Angelo's skull. It wasn't a sound in the room. It was a voice echoing directly in his brain. He sucked in a sharp breath. He closed the distance to the bed in two long strides and grabbed Elba's wrist. Elba gasped in pain. She opened her eyes, staring at him in sheer terror. She bit down hard on her lower lip, refusing to speak. "What did you just say?" Angelo demanded, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. He leaned in close, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. Elba shook her head frantically. Is he crazy? she screamed internally. Is he going to strangle me to death right now to get revenge for Georgina? Angelo dropped her wrist like it was burning hot metal. He stumbled back two steps. His shoulder blades hit the cold plaster wall. He stared at his own hands, his breathing shallow and fast. He was losing his mind. He had to be. The heavy wooden door pushed open. The attending physician rushed in, followed by three nurses. The doctor clicked on a penlight and leaned over Elba. "Miss Potter, how are you feeling? Follow the light, please." "Just dizzy," Elba whispered. Her voice was a raspy, broken croak. Angelo watched her meek, obedient expression from the wall. My head hurts so much, Elba's voice echoed in his brain again. I definitely have a concussion from Georgina pushing me down those stairs yesterday. Angelo's pupils dilated. His stomach dropped. He had been told Elba slipped. Georgina had cried for hours saying Elba lost her balance. Angelo pushed off the wall. He grabbed the attending physician by the collar of his white coat, lifting him slightly onto his toes. "Get her a full neurological workup," Angelo ordered, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "MRI, CT scan, everything. Now." The doctor paled, his hands shaking as he gripped Angelo's wrists. "Y-yes, Mr. Potter. Right away. Nurses, get the wheelchair." Angelo let him go. The nurses hurried forward, carefully helping Elba sit up and shift into the wheelchair. Elba let them move her, keeping her head down. Fine, scan me, she muttered in her mind. I hope you find a terminal illness. I don't want to stay in this bankrupt, toxic family for another single day. A thick vein bulged on Angelo's forehead. He shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets, curling his fingers into tight fists until his nails dug into his palms. He followed the wheelchair out of the room. The cold air of the hospital corridor hit his face. He pulled out his phone with a stiff hand and typed a message to his executive assistant: Pull the security footage from the main staircase at the estate. Yesterday afternoon. Do it now.