The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The pale morning light filtered through the iron bars of the basement window. Frieda sat on the floor, her back against the wall. Her eyes were bloodshot. She had not slept. The lock on the door clicked. The heavy wood swung open, letting in a blinding slice of hallway light. Meredith marched down the stairs. Her high heels snapped against the concrete. The fake sweetness from last night was gone. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic. She grabbed Frieda by the arm. Her manicured nails dug deep into Frieda's skin. "Get up! Go wash your face and put the dress on!" Frieda ripped her arm away. She glared at Meredith. "I am not doing anything until you turn the phones back on." Meredith's face twisted with rage. She raised her hand and swung it hard toward Frieda's face. Frieda shot her hand up. She caught Meredith's wrist in mid-air. Her grip was like a vise. Frieda shoved the wrist back. "Do not touch me." A terrified scream echoed from the living room upstairs. It was Russell. A heavy thud followed, shaking the ceiling. The butler stumbled down the stairs. His face was the color of ash. He looked at Meredith. "Madam. The Terrell family convoy. They are here. Three hours early." Meredith stopped breathing. She stumbled backward and hit the wall. "No. Blair isn't ready." Frieda saw her chance. She pushed past them and sprinted up the stairs. She ran into the living room and stopped dead. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, ten armored black Rolls-Royces sat parked on the front lawn. They looked like a fleet of hearses. Dozens of men in black suits and sunglasses formed a solid wall around the exits. Russell sat collapsed on the sofa. His hands shook violently as he held a piece of pink stationery. He looked like he was suffocating. Frieda glanced at the paper. It was Blair's handwriting. I am not marrying a corpse. I took a flight to Europe. Fix this yourself. Frieda felt a dark satisfaction. Blair's selfishness had finally caught up to them. Meredith ran into the room, saw the note, and let out a piercing wail. She collapsed onto the rug, sobbing hysterically. The heavy oak front door swung open. Pierce Montgomery Jr., the Chief Executive Assistant to the Terrell family, stepped inside. His face was carved from stone. He did not look at the crying woman on the floor. He looked at Russell. "Is the bride ready?" Pierce asked. His voice carried no emotion. Russell jumped up. He stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "She... she is just finishing her hair. Please, just a moment." Pierce lifted his wrist and checked his Patek Philippe watch. "Mr. Terrell gives you fifteen minutes. If the bride is not in the car by then, Dillard Pharmaceuticals will be liquidated before the sun sets." Pierce turned and walked out. The black-suited guards pulled the doors shut behind him with a heavy thud. Russell spun around. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Frieda. He charged at her like a wild animal. Before Frieda could step back, Russell dropped to his knees. His kneecaps hit the hardwood floor with a loud crack. Frieda flinched. She stared down at him, her muscles tense. Russell grabbed Frieda's ankles. Tears streamed down his face. "Please, Frieda. Save us. Save my life's work. I am begging you." Meredith crawled across the floor. She grabbed the hem of Frieda's damp coat. "We fed you! We clothed you! You owe us your life!" Frieda looked down at the two people who had made her life miserable for twelve years. Her chest felt hollow. She tried to pull her legs free. "No. I am not paying for Blair's cowardice. I am not selling myself for your company."