The Fake Blind Heiress's Sweet Revenge

The morning sun glared through the study windows, casting sharp shadows across Aurora's desk. She sat in her leather executive chair, a wireless earpiece tucked into her right ear. On the laptop screen in front of her, the screen-reading software was running, a robotic voice loudly narrating the menus to maintain her cover. But Aurora wasn't listening to the robot. Her eyes were locked onto the encrypted email Gia had just sent. She scrolled through the attached financial statements. The numbers blurred together for a second before snapping into horrifying focus. Her irrevocable trust fund-the thirty million dollars her biological parents had left her-was hollowed out. Eighty percent of the capital was gone. Aurora's hand clamped down on the computer mouse. The veins on the back of her hand bulged against her pale skin. Her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. She tracked the money. Jaren had forged her signature on a series of authorization forms while she was heavily medicated in the hospital. The funds had been funneled through three different shell companies before landing in an offshore account registered in the Cayman Islands under Jaren's name. A hot, suffocating rage burned in her chest. It felt like someone had poured acid directly into her stomach. The Russo family hadn't just betrayed her; they had bled her dry. Gia's voice crackled in her earpiece. "Rory, this is massive fraud. Do you want me to send this directly to the SEC? We can have the FBI at Jaren's door by noon." Aurora forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. Her lungs felt tight. "No," Aurora whispered, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. "If we spook him now, he'll move the rest of the money into crypto, and I'll never find it. We have to play the long game. I need the account passwords." Before Gia could answer, a loud, violent crash echoed from the living room. It sounded like a heavy table being overturned, followed by the sharp shatter of glass. Aurora ripped the earpiece out. She grabbed her cane, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs. She threw the study door open and stumbled into the hallway, forcing her steps to look panicked and uncoordinated. "Hilbert?" she called out, tapping the cane wildly against the walls. She reached the living room. The heavy glass coffee table was flipped on its side. Shards of a broken water glass covered the rug. Hilbert was curled into a tight ball on the floor near the floor-to-ceiling windows. His hands were clamped over his ears, his fingers digging into his dark hair. Aurora dropped her cane. It clattered loudly against the wood floor. She dropped to her knees beside him, reaching out with trembling hands. Her fingers brushed against his forehead. He was burning up. His skin radiated a terrifying heat, and his cheap shirt was completely soaked through with cold sweat. "Hilbert!" she yelled, patting his cheek. He didn't open his eyes. His body convulsed, his muscles locking up in rigid, painful spasms. He was trapped deep inside a nightmare. A low, animalistic groan tore from his throat. He thrashed his arms out blindly. His massive hand caught Aurora's wrist, gripping it with bone-crushing force. Aurora gasped in pain, but she didn't pull away. She leaned closer, her ear hovering near his mouth. He was muttering in broken, breathless English. "Don't touch her..." he choked out, his voice raw with agony. "Let my mother go... the blood... too much blood..." Aurora's breath caught in her throat. The sheer terror in his voice sent a chill straight down her spine. She pictured a dark room, violence, a child watching something horrific. Then, his grip on her wrist loosened slightly. His head rolled to the side, and his tone shifted from rage to a desperate, broken plea. "Aurora..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't be afraid... I'll protect you..." Aurora froze. Her pupils dilated, her heart skipping a violent beat. He knew her name. He wasn't just saying it as his fake wife; he was saying it like a vow he had made a thousand times before. She didn't have time to process the shock. His breathing was becoming shallow, his skin turning a pale, sickly gray. Aurora yanked her phone from her pocket. She dialed 911, her fingers flying over the screen without hesitation. "911, what is your emergency?" the dispatcher asked. "I need an ambulance at 432 Park Avenue, Penthouse B," Aurora said, her voice dropping its panic, becoming sharp and clinical. "Adult male, approximately thirty. Severe hyperthermia, unresponsive, exhibiting signs of a severe PTSD flashback. Heart rate is erratic." "Units are on the way, ma'am," the dispatcher replied. Aurora hung up. She scrambled to the guest bathroom, soaked a hand towel in freezing water, and ran back. She pressed the cold cloth against Hilbert's burning forehead, holding it there with shaking hands. Ten minutes later, the heavy pounding on the front door signaled the FDNY paramedics. Aurora instantly dropped her sharp focus. She grabbed her cane, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the locks, letting out a convincing sob as she let them in. The paramedics rushed past her, loading Hilbert onto a stretcher. Aurora gripped her cane tight, following the sound of their heavy boots. As they rolled him into the elevator, Aurora looked down at his pale, sweating face. Her chest ached with a strange, heavy pressure. Whoever this man was, he was carrying a hell inside him. And she was going to find out why.