The Mute Heiress: My Ruthless Husband's Prize

Julian saw the screen. His face turned a mottled purple. He slapped the phone out of Elenor's hand.

It hit the pavement with a crunch.

"You ungrateful mute bitch!" Julian roared. The mic on the camera picked it up. The crowd went silent.

He grabbed her by the front of the scrubs. He shook her. "I'm trying to help you!"

Elenor was thrown backward. Her spine collided with a lamppost. Pain shot through her ribs. She slid down, gasping for air.

Ursula was shouting now. "She's having an episode! Grab her! We need to get her home!"

Julian lunged for her. His fingers dug into her arm, bruising the skin. He was dragging her toward the SUV.

"No," Elenor mouthed. No sound came out.

She looked past the chaos, past the flashing lights, and her gaze locked with Hilliard's in the distant car. There was no plea in her eyes, no request for salvation. Instead, there was a cold, clear message: This circus is a liability. Your investment is being publicly degraded. It was a strategic look, not a desperate one.

He wouldn't help a victim. But he would protect an asset.

Julian opened the car door. He was shoving her inside.

Elenor felt a surge of panic, not for her safety, but for the plan. This was not part of the plan. She closed her eyes, preparing to fight, to bite, to do anything to stop him.

The door of the Rolls Royce opened.

Hilliard stepped out. He didn't rush. He buttoned his jacket. He took a drag of the cigar and exhaled a plume of blue smoke.

The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. The aura of money was a physical barrier.

He walked up to Julian. He looked at Julian's hand, which was still gripping Elenor's arm.

"Count to three," Hilliard said. His voice was conversational. "If your hand is still on my wife at three, you lose the hand."

Julian blinked. "What?"

"One."

Hilliard took a step closer.

Julian released her as if she were made of fire. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Elenor slumped forward, her legs giving out.

She didn't hit the ground.

Hilliard's arm swept around her waist. He caught her, pulling her flush against his chest. The wool of his suit was rough against her cheek. He smelled of tobacco and cold winter air.

He looked down at her. His eyes were hard, but his grip was secure.

"Creating a scene, Mrs. Blackburn?" he murmured, his voice low and mocking near her ear. "This will be expensive."