The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The Rolls-Royce drove through the driving rain for two hours. It finally slowed, turning through a set of massive iron gates into a private estate on the eastern edge of Long Island. Frieda looked out the tinted window. A colossal, gray stone manor loomed in the distance. It looked like a gothic fortress, cold and unforgiving. The cars stopped in front of a giant stone fountain. Two rows of servants stood in the pouring rain, holding black umbrellas. No one spoke a word. A guard pulled Frieda's door open. The freezing wind slapped her face. She grabbed the heavy, wet layers of her wedding dress and dragged herself out of the car. She was led through towering oak doors into a grand foyer. The ceiling was thirty feet high. Dark oil paintings of dead Terrell ancestors stared down at her from the walls. The air felt heavy, pressing down on her lungs. At the far end of the room, an old man sat on a velvet sofa. He held a cane with a solid gold lion's head. His silver hair was slicked back. His eyes were sharp and predatory. This was Graves Terrell. Standing next to him was a man in a dark, flowing robe. He held a brass compass in his hands. This was Silas Thorne, the family's private astrologer. Graves struck his cane against the marble floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He glared at Frieda's wet hair and ruined dress. "Dillard sends me a bride who looks like a drowned rat." Frieda kept her spine perfectly straight. She looked the old man right in the eyes. "There was a storm." Graves raised an eyebrow. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He was used to people trembling before him. He turned to Silas and gave a short nod. "Test her." Silas stepped forward. He held the brass compass out and walked slowly in a circle around Frieda. The needle on the compass spun wildly. Silas frowned, then his eyes widened in shock. He stopped in front of her. "Give me your left hand." Frieda felt a surge of disgust. She was a medical student. This occult nonsense made her skin crawl. She tried to pull her hand back, but Silas grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. He pressed his fingers against her pulse point and closed his eyes. A second later, Silas let go. He spun around and bowed deeply to Graves. His voice shook with excitement. "Sir. Her astrological chart is a flawless energy match for the young master. Her life force will suppress the destructive energy destroying his body. She is the perfect medicine." Graves let out a long breath. The harsh lines on his face softened. He smiled. But Frieda caught the subtle, knowing glance exchanged between Graves and Silas. It was a performance. Graves didn't care about the stars; he needed a plausible, superstitious excuse to silence the Terrell board of directors while securing a bride with a pristine medical background to secretly monitor his grandson. Frieda bit her tongue to keep from screaming at the absurdity of it all. She was being treated like a human blood bag, pawned off in a calculated corporate play dressed up as mysticism. Graves waved his hand. "Take her to the master bedroom. Do your duty as a wife, girl. If my grandson's condition worsens, I will wipe the Dillard family off the face of the earth." Frieda's stomach twisted. She was tied to the life of a dying man she had never met. The butler picked up a dim lantern and led her to the elevator. They rode up to the eighth floor. The absolute top of the manor. The forbidden zone. The hallway was lined with thick carpet that swallowed their footsteps. The air smelled strongly of bleach and bitter herbal medicine. The butler stopped in front of a set of black double doors. He didn't knock. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. He shoved Frieda inside and pulled the door shut. The lock clicked. Frieda stood in the dark room. She gripped the fabric of her dress. She took a deep breath and turned to face the monster she had just married.