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The Billionaire's Blind Bride: No Mercy
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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 8

It was afternoon. The room was golden.

Clive was on a Zoom call. He had his AirPods in, murmuring about quarterly projections.

Dahlia was bored. She was listening to an audiobook, but her mind wandered.

She could hear Clive breathing. She could hear the rustle of his papers.

She moved to reach for her water. Her hand knocked the remote off the table.

Clive stopped talking mid-sentence.

Hold on, he said to the board of directors.

He took the AirPods out. He walked over, picked up the remote, and placed it in her hand.

You're a hazard, he said. But his tone was gentle.

Clive?

Hmm?

What do you look like?

Clive paused. I look like a man.

Dahlia rolled her eyes behind the bandages. Helpful. I mean... I saw you at the wedding, but you were far away. And scary.

Scary?

Intimidating. I want to know.

Clive sighed. He sat down.

Well, I have two eyes. A nose. A mouth.

Dahlia reached out. Can I?

Clive stared at her hand hovering in the air.

He knew he should say no. This was crossing a line. This was Clause 34B being shredded.

But he leaned forward.

Fine. But don't poke me in the eye.

Dahlia's fingertips touched his jaw.

Stubborn, she muttered. He hadn't shaved since yesterday. The stubble was rough against her soft skin. It sent a zing of electricity through his nerves.

She traced his jawline. Strong. Square.

She moved up. High cheekbones.

Your nose is straight, she whispered. Like a Roman statue.

She moved to his eyes. He closed them. Her fingers fluttered over his eyelids.

You look tired, she said. Even your eyes feel heavy.

She moved down.

Her thumb brushed his lower lip.

Clive stopped breathing.

Her finger traced the shape of his mouth. It was a stern mouth. But under her touch, it softened.

He had the sudden, insane urge to bite her finger. To taste her skin.

Dahlia pulled her hand back.

You're handsome, she decided. But you look mean.

Clive opened his eyes. He grabbed her hand before she could pull it all the way back.

I am mean, he whispered.

No, you're not. Not really.

Clive looked at her. She was blind, but she saw him better than anyone else ever had.

He let go of her hand. He stood up abruptly.

I have to get back to the meeting.

He put his AirPods back in.

But for the rest of the call, he couldn't concentrate on the profit margins. He could only feel the ghost of her fingers on his lips.

Continue to next part

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