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The Neglected Wife Is A Hidden Genius Novel Cover

The Neglected Wife Is A Hidden Genius

I woke up in the ICU, my lungs still burning from the freezing river water. Just outside the cracked door, I heard my adoptive family talking. That’s when the horrifying realization hit me: my drowning wasn't an accident. My adoptive mother had deliberately pried my fingers off the slippery rocks and pushed me in. "When is she going to wake up? This Rust Belt trash always finds a way to ruin our important moments." "If she's mentally unstable, we should just send her to that facility in the Hamptons and have her sign the inheritance waiver." My father and brothers coldly plotted my removal, while my fiancé, Eric, laughed flirtatiously with my younger sister. He had his arm around her waist, completely unbothered by the fact that I was fighting for my life after he had just scammed me out of half a million dollars. For ten years, I had smiled, obeyed, and shrunk myself to fit into their gilded cage, desperate for a sliver of their love. I couldn't understand how a decade of absolute devotion was met with calculated murder and such casual, cruel betrayal. But the pathetic, desperate Iona died in that icy water. As the suppressed memories of my true identity—"Silas", a master art restorer possessing centuries of dangerous, hidden knowledge—flooded my mind, my tears stopped. I picked up the phone, secured a marriage of convenience with the most powerful man in New York, and began my counterattack.
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Chapter 7

Iona held the scalpel like an extension of her hand. The room smelled of turpentine and rabbit-skin glue. She wore magnifying loupes, her breath slow and steady.

She worked for two days straight. She carefully dissolved the top layer of the Dutch landscape. Beneath the dull greens and browns, a different color began to emerge. A vibrant, golden ochre.

Her heart rate spiked. She scraped away another millimeter of grime.

A face stared back at her. A woman with golden hair and sorrowful eyes. The brushwork was unmistakable. The thick impasto, the dramatic chiaroscuro.

It was a Rembrandt. An early, undocumented masterpiece.

Iona sat back, her hands trembling slightly. This painting was worth millions. It was her war chest.

She took high-resolution photos and wrote a detailed report, analyzing the pigment, the canvas weave, and the brushstrokes. She uploaded the encrypted file to a secure server, then sent a message to her contact, Mr. Collier, with a single line of code-a specific reference to a lost 19th-century pigment analysis technique. It was a signal only a handful of people in the world would understand. It would bypass gatekeepers and go straight to the top.

She finally stepped out of the studio, her muscles stiff, paint smudged on her cheek. It was midnight.

The living room lights were on. Kevan Sanders sat on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked up, his eyes trailing over her messy hair and paint-stained clothes.

"Harmon froze your accounts," he said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"I know," Iona replied.

Kevan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black credit card. He placed it on the coffee table. "No limit. I don't want the press writing about Mrs. Sanders being broke."

Iona stared at the card. It represented total dependence. It represented being kept.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "No, thank you. I'll handle it myself."

Kevan's hand froze on the glass. His eyes narrowed, genuinely shocked for the first time since she had met him. A woman with zero dollars to her name had just turned down a blank check.

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