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The Billionaire's Blind Bride: No Mercy Novel Cover

The Billionaire's Blind Bride: No Mercy

I married Clive Harrington, the coldest billionaire in Manhattan, under a strict contract that forbade any emotional burdens. When I needed a high-risk surgery to save my sight, I checked into the clinic alone, hiding the procedure from a husband who saw me as nothing more than a legal asset. I thought I could handle the darkness in silence. But while I was blind and bandaged in my hospital bed, my biological mother called, screaming that if I didn't produce a Harrington heir by the end of the fiscal year, she would cut off the life-saving treatments for my disabled sister. I was crawling on the cold hospital floor, desperately feeling for a cane I had dropped, when I touched a pair of expensive leather shoes. It was Clive. He was supposed to be in London closing a multi-million dollar deal, but there he was, watching his "contract wife" groveling in the dark like a beggar. He didn't walk away in disgust. He carried me to a five-thousand-dollar-a-night VIP suite and sat by my bed, listening in chilling silence as another voicemail from my mother filled the room, calling me a "useless broodmare" who was only worth the trust fund disbursements my marriage secured. I expected him to remind me of Clause 34B or hand me divorce papers now that I was "damaged goods." Instead, I felt his thumb brush a stray tear from my cheek, his presence shifting from a statue of ice into a predatory shield. "I thought I was just currency to you," I whispered, my voice trembling behind the gauze. "Just an investment." Clive didn't answer with words. He picked up his phone and called his head of legal with a single, terrifying command: "Kill the Douglas family’s credit lines. Every debt, every lien—trigger them all. If they want a war, I’ll give them a massacre." As he leaned down to kiss my bandaged forehead, I realized the contract was dead. My husband wasn't protecting an asset anymore; he was hunting the people who had dared to touch what belonged to him.
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Chapter 4

Dahlia was on her hands and knees.

She had dropped the cane again. It had rolled away, clattering across the linoleum floor of her room. She swept her hands across the cold tiles, feeling for it.

Dust. Lint. No cane.

She crawled forward. Just a few more inches.

Her hand struck something.

It wasn't the cane. It was a shoe. A man's shoe.

She froze. Her fingers rested on the leather toe cap. She could feel the quality of the material. Smooth. expensive.

Her hand traveled up. A crisp pant leg. Suit fabric.

Dahlia?

The voice came from above. It wasn't a hallucination this time. It was real. And it was furious.

Dahlia scrambled back. She lost her balance and landed hard on her bottom. Her glasses went askew.

Clive? Her voice was a squeak. What... what are you doing here?

Clive stared down at her.

She looked like a wreck. The hospital gown was bunching up. Her hair was a bird's nest. She was crawling on the floor like a beggar.

This was his wife.

A Harrington.

Rage flared in his chest. Not at her, exactly. But at the image. At the Douglas family. At the universe that allowed this indignity.

He didn't answer. He bent down.

What are you- Dahlia started to protest.

He didn't let her finish. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back.

He lifted her.

She was shockingly light. She felt fragile, like hollow bones and paper skin.

Clive! Put me down!

She flailed, her hand smacking against his chest. It was like hitting a wall.

Stop moving, he ordered. You're blind, not deaf.

He held her tight against him. Her face was pressed into the lapel of his suit. She smelled it again. The cedar. The rain. It was overwhelming.

He carried her out of the room.

Where are we going? She was panicking. People were looking. She could feel their eyes, hear the sudden hush in the corridor.

To a room that isn't a closet, Clive snapped.

He shot a glare over his shoulder at Arthur, a silent command to handle the room and its contents, and carried her down the hall, past the gaping nurses, past Arthur who was frantically making calls.

Clive, please, Dahlia whispered. This is embarrassing.

You crawling on the floor was embarrassing, he countered. This is damage control.

He marched to the elevator, ignoring the waiting crowd. Arthur cleared the car.

They went up. Top floor. The VIP suites.

He carried her into a room that smelled of fresh lilies and money. He deposited her on the bed. It was softer than the one downstairs.

He stood over her, breathing slightly harder than usual.

Why didn't you tell me?

Dahlia straightened her gown. She felt exposed. Vulnerable.

The contract, she said. Clause 34B. No emotional obligations. I didn't want to bother you.

Clive felt like punching the wall.

You didn't want to bother me? He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. So you decided to have major surgery alone? What if there were complications? Who was going to sign for you? Arthur?

I did put Arthur down, she mumbled.

Clive dragged a hand down his face. You put my lawyer as your emergency contact instead of your husband.

You were in London!

I have a jet, Dahlia!

The shout hung in the room.

Dahlia shrank back against the pillows. She had never heard him raise his voice. He was always so cold, so controlled.

Clive saw her flinch. He forced himself to exhale. He adjusted his cufflinks. A nervous tic.

He walked to the window. He needed distance. If he stayed close to her, he might do something irrational. Like shake her. Or hug her.

This room is ridiculous, she said into the silence. It probably costs two thousand a night.

Five, Clive corrected. And stop thinking like a pauper. You are a Harrington. If the press found out you were in a standard recovery room, without private security, the stock would drop two points.

Is that all you care about? The stock?

Clive turned to look at her. She couldn't see him, but he stared at her bandaged face. He looked at her hands, twisting the bedsheet.

No, he said softly. But he didn't say what else he cared about.

He pressed the intercom button on the wall.

Get the Chief of Medicine in here. Now.

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