The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The silence in the living room was absolute. Only the thunder rumbling outside the windows broke the quiet. Frieda stared at Russell. She stepped back, her wet shoes squeaking on the marble. "This is fraud," Frieda said. Her voice was cold. "It is illegal. I won't do it." Blair sneered. She looked at Frieda like she was dirt on her shoe. "You ate our food for twelve years. This is your payback." Frieda clenched her jaw. "I am on a full scholarship. I haven't taken a dime from this family since I turned eighteen." Meredith gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "You ungrateful wretch! We gave you a home!" Russell held up a hand to silence his wife. He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey. He turned to Frieda, slipping into his negotiator persona. "If you do this," Russell said, taking a sip, "I will fully fund your independent genetics lab when you graduate." Frieda felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat. She knew his empty promises. "No," Frieda said. She turned toward the stairs. "I am moving back to the dorms tomorrow morning. I'm done with this." Blair shrieked. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the table and hurled it at Frieda's back. Frieda twisted her body. The ashtray missed her spine but smashed against the wooden banister. A large shard of thick glass sliced across Frieda's calf. Pain flared. Warm blood trickled down her cold skin. Frieda did not look back. She limped down the stairs to the basement and slammed the door to her small, damp room. She threw the deadbolt. She slid down the door until she hit the floor. Exhaustion crushed her chest. She needed to call her medical school advisor. She reached into her pocket, but her fingers found nothing. Her phone was gone. She scrambled to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She found her old backup phone. She pressed the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. Frieda grabbed a charging cable and plugged it into the wall. The red battery icon slowly blinked onto the screen. Her hands shook as she waited. She was completely cut off. The man in room 801 was out there somewhere, and she had no way to know if he was alive or dead. Footsteps pounded on the floorboards above her head. Furniture scraped against the wood. Blair was yelling again. Ten minutes later, the backup phone powered on. Frieda dialed 911. The call failed. She stared at the screen. "No Service." She opened the Wi-Fi settings. The network was gone. Her stomach plummeted. Russell had turned on the villa's signal jammer. He had cut her off from the world. She jumped up and ran to the door. She grabbed the handle and yanked. It stopped with a hard clunk. The door was locked from the outside. Frieda pounded her fists against the wood. "Open the door! This is false imprisonment!" The butler's voice came through the wood, flat and emotionless. "Get some rest, Miss Frieda. The stylists will be here for you in the morning." Frieda backed away from the door. She looked at the only window in the basement. It was a small vent near the ceiling, covered by thick iron bars welded into the concrete. She sat on the edge of her narrow bed. The faint flashes of lightning illuminated the damp walls. She pulled her knees to her chest, her mind racing for a way out. Miles away, in a private hospital in Manhattan, Burke's eyes snapped open. He ripped the IV needle out of the back of his hand. Blood dripped onto the white sheets. He threw a crumpled paper napkin at the chest of his bodyguard. His voice was a raw, violent roar. "Find her. Now." The bodyguard caught the napkin, his hands shaking. "Sir, we tried. The number is disconnected. It doesn't exist." Burke's eyes darkened. The muscles in his jaw ticked. The air in the room turned freezing cold.