The Blind Billionaire's Hidden Genius Wife

The iron gates of the Sterling estate groaned as they swung open. Through the rain-streaked window, Sera saw the main house. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress of gray stone, looming against the night sky like a threat.

The car stopped. Sera stepped out into a puddle, the cold water soaking instantly into her shoes. There was no umbrella waiting for her. Just a severe-looking woman in a stiff uniform standing under the portico.

Mrs. Sterling, the woman said. Her voice was devoid of inflection. I am the housekeeper. Mr. Sterling does not like noise. You will remove your shoes before you go upstairs.

Sera nodded, playing the part. She slipped off her wet heels and carried them. The marble floor of the foyer was freezing against her stockinged feet.

The housekeeper led her down a long corridor lined with portraits of dead men who all looked like they disapproved of her existence. They stopped at a heavy oak door.

He is inside. Do not disturb him unless necessary.

The housekeeper opened the door, ushered Sera in, and closed it. The lock clicked.

The room was pitch black. The air was thick, smelling of antiseptic and sandalwood. It was the smell of a hospital trying to disguise itself as a library.

Sera stood still, letting her eyes adjust. The only light came from the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, a sliver of gray moonlight cutting across the carpet.

In the center of the room, facing the window, was a wheelchair. A silhouette sat in it, motionless.

Mr. Sterling? Sera whispered.

No answer. Then, a rhythmic tapping sound began. Tap. Tap. Tap. His finger against the armrest. It was fast, agitated.

Sera took a step forward. The floorboard creaked.

Get out, a voice rasped. It was deep, rough like gravel.

Sera froze. I... I can't. The door is locked. I'm Sera. From the Quinn family.

A low, dark chuckle vibrated through the room.

Another one. Did they tell you I eat my wives? Or just that I break them?

I signed the papers, Sera said, keeping her voice small. I have nowhere else to go.

The wheelchair spun around with violent speed. Sera couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses he wore in the pitch black, but she felt the wave of aggression rolling off him.

I said get out!

He grabbed something from the side table-a heavy crystal water glass-and hurled it.

Sera didn't think. Her body reacted before her brain could process the "victim" script. She sidestepped smoothly to the left. The glass smashed against the wall exactly where her head had been a second ago, showering the room in shards.

Harrison heard the movement. He heard the lack of a scream.

He launched himself from the chair.

He wasn't a cripple. He moved with the desperate, adrenaline-fueled burst of a cornered animal, all coiled rage and raw willpower that ignored the tremors racking his frame. He tackled her, his weight driving her into the thick carpet. His hands found her throat instantly. His fingers were ice cold and shockingly strong, though she could feel a fine, spastic tremor in his grip.

Sera gasped, the air cut off. Panic flared, hot and white. He was going to kill her.

She couldn't play the victim anymore. She reached up, her fingers finding the bundle of nerves on the inside of his wrist. She pressed her thumb down, hard and precise.

Harrison grunted in shock as his arm went numb. His grip faltered.

Sera bucked her hips, using his momentary confusion to flip their positions. She pinned him down, her knee driving into his solar plexus, her forearm pressing against his windpipe.

For a second, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. They were intimately close, chest to chest in the dark.

Sera realized what she had done. She scrambled back, retreating to the wall.

I'm sorry! she gasped, forcing the tremble back into her voice. I... I grew up with brothers. It was a reflex. Please don't hurt me.

Harrison lay on the floor. His sunglasses had been knocked askew. In the dim light from the window, Sera saw his eyes. They were unfocused, staring at nothing, but she saw the muscles around them twitching in a spasm.

Nystagmus. Drug-induced.

Harrison sat up slowly. He adjusted his glasses, his face a mask of stone. But he didn't attack again. He turned his head slightly, listening to her heart rate.

You're not a Quinn, he muttered. A Quinn would have fainted.

I am, Sera insisted. I just don't want to die.

Harrison pulled himself back into his wheelchair. His movements were stiff, but controlled.

Sleep on the sofa, he ordered. If you come within five feet of the bed, I will break your neck. And next time, I won't miss.

Sera grabbed a pillow and retreated to the sofa. She watched him in the dark. He wasn't just blind. He was being hunted. And that meant he was useful.