Married To The Comatose Tech Emperor

The cold metal of the surgical scalpel pressed against the warm skin of Gina's thumb.

She sat behind the massive mahogany desk in the director's office of Blackwood Asylum.

Her back rested against the plush leather chair.

She twirled the scalpel between her fingers.

The sharp edge caught the fluorescent light, flashing a blinding white across the sterile room.

Dr. Evans stood two feet away from the desk.

A thick bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

It soaked into the stiff white collar of his medical coat.

His breathing was shallow and rapid.

His hands shook as he held out a stack of discharge papers.

Heavy, rapid footsteps echoed from the hallway outside.

Dr. Evans flinched.

He scrambled backward, putting the desk between himself and Gina.

He cleared his throat and raised his voice, pointing a trembling finger at her.

"You need to understand the rules of the outside world, Gina."

The heavy oak door was violently shoved open.

It slammed against the wall with a loud crack.

Gustaf Rollins stepped into the room.

He wore a custom Tom Ford suit that hugged his broad shoulders.

The smell of rich cigar smoke and expensive cologne instantly overpowered the scent of bleach in the office.

Gustaf stopped in the center of the room.

He looked at Gina.

She wore a faded, oversized gray jumpsuit.

Her dark hair hung in greasy, tangled strands over her face.

Gustaf pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a loud breath.

He waved his hand in front of his face as if swatting away a foul odor.

"Sign the damn papers, Evans."

Gustaf threw a legal waiver onto the desk.

The thick paper slid across the polished wood and stopped right in front of Dr. Evans.

Dr. Evans picked up a pen.

His knuckles turned white from gripping the plastic too hard.

He did not look at the paper.

His eyes darted toward Gina.

He waited.

Gina slowly lowered her eyelids.

She slid the scalpel up her sleeve.

The cold metal rested against her forearm.

She gave a single, barely visible nod.

Dr. Evans exhaled a massive breath.

His shoulders dropped.

He scribbled his signature on the bottom line and slammed the heavy steel seal of the asylum onto the paper.

Gustaf did not wait for the ink to dry.

He marched around the desk.

His large hand clamped down on Gina.

His thick fingers dug into her bicep, bruising the skin.

He yanked her out of the leather chair.

Gina let her knees buckle.

She stumbled forward, her shoulder hitting Gustaf.

She let her head loll slightly to the side.

Her body felt completely limp, perfectly mimicking a patient heavily sedated by years of psychiatric drugs.

"Keep your mouth shut on the ride to New York."

Gustaf tightened his grip on her arm.

"If you have an episode, I will tie you to the roof of the car."

He dragged her toward the door.

Gina dragged her feet against the linoleum floor.

They stepped out into the long, gray hallway.

The walls were lined with heavy steel doors.

Thick iron bars covered the small viewing windows.

Behind the bars, dozens of inmates stood in the shadows.

These were the most violent offenders in the state.

Their eyes locked onto Gina.

Gustaf felt the heavy stares.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

His chest tightened.

He swallowed hard and quickened his pace, dragging Gina faster.

He thought the inmates were looking at him.

He thought they were preparing to throw themselves against the doors.

Gina walked half a step behind Gustaf.

She raised her free hand.

She kept it close to her waist, completely hidden from Gustaf.

She pressed her thumb over her index and middle fingers.

It was a precise, silent command signal recognized only within the highest echelons of the international underground prison system.

The hallway went dead silent.

Every single inmate behind the iron bars took a synchronized step backward.

Their boots scraped against the concrete floors.

They lowered their heads.

Their chins touched their chests in absolute submission.

Gustaf pushed open the heavy front doors of the asylum.

The cold autumn wind hit their faces.

A black Lincoln Navigator sat idling on the crushed gravel driveway.

The driver jumped out and opened the rear door.

Gustaf let go of Gina.

He climbed into the spacious second row and sank into the leather seat.

"Get in the back."

He pointed to the cramped third row.

Gina climbed in.

Her knees bumped against the back of Gustaf.

She looked at the pristine beige leather interior.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a cold, hard smile.

The heavy doors slammed shut.

The engine roared.

The SUV tires crunched over the gravel, driving through the towering barbed-wire gates of Blackwood.

Gina looked out the rear window.

Dr. Evans stood on the concrete steps.

He bent at the waist.

He bowed deeply toward the departing vehicle and did not stand up.

The SUV merged onto the highway.

Gustaf pulled a silver lighter from his pocket.

He lit a thick cigar.

The heavy smoke filled the enclosed cabin.

The smell burned the back of Gina.

"We are not bringing you back out of the goodness of our hearts."

Gustaf blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Father arranged a marriage for you."

He turned his head slightly, looking at her through the rearview mirror.

"It is a commercial union with the Brooks family."

Gustaf adjusted his expensive diamond cufflinks.

"This is the greatest blessing you will ever receive in your miserable life. You will accept it on your knees."

Gina kept her head down.

Her eyes stayed locked on the rearview mirror.

She watched the muscles in Gustaf.

She saw his left eye twitch.

She saw his grip on the cigar tighten.

Her brain processed the micro-expressions instantly.

He was hiding something massive.

This marriage was a death trap.

Gina pulled her shoulders up to her ears.

She made her body tremble.

"Who is it."

Her voice was raspy and weak, scratching her throat as the words came out.

Gustaf rolled his eyes.

"Kerr Brooks."

The name hit Gina.

Her mind instantly accessed the massive, encrypted database she kept in her head.

Kerr Brooks.

The emperor of New York.

The man who controlled the global tech infrastructure.

Gina dropped her chin to her chest.

Her messy bangs fell forward, completely covering her eyes.

Behind the curtain of hair, her eyes burned with a sharp, predatory light.

"Okay."

She whispered the word to her knees.

The Lincoln Navigator pulled to a stop.

The massive Greek Revival portico of the Rollins estate cast a long, dark shadow over the driveway.

The driver turned off the engine.

He did not get out to open the door for Gina.

Gina pushed the heavy door open herself.

Her worn canvas shoes stepped onto the thick, expensive Persian rug that covered the entrance steps.

The heavy mahogany front doors were wide open.

Inside the grand foyer, a massive crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden light.

Edwina Rollins sat on a tufted velvet sofa.

Hailie Rollins sat next to her.

Hailie wore a pristine white Chanel haute couture dress.

The fabric draped perfectly over her slender frame.

Hailie held a delicate bone-china teacup.

She looked over the rim of the cup at Gina.

Her eyes scanned the faded gray jumpsuit and the greasy hair.

A sharp, satisfied gleam flashed in Hailie.

Edwina slammed her teacup onto the glass table.

The porcelain clattered loudly.

Edwina pinched her nose with two fingers.

"Take her to the basement immediately."

Edwina glared at the head butler.

"Hose her down. The smell of that asylum is making me nauseous."

Gina did not blink.

She did not open her mouth.

She dropped her shoulders and let her arms hang limp at her sides.

She followed the butler.

Her shoes dragged across the polished marble floor.

She walked toward the narrow, unlit door that led to the servant quarters.

"Oh, Mother, poor Gina looks so miserable."

Hailie.

Her voice was high and coated in fake sweetness.

"She is just a tool, Hailie."

Edwina.

"Do not waste your pity on a broken thing."

Gina walked down the concrete stairs.

The air in the basement was damp and cold.

The butler pointed to a small, rusted shower stall in the corner.

He dropped a folded pile of fabric on a wooden stool and walked away.

Gina stepped into the stall.

She turned the metal knob.

Freezing water blasted out of the showerhead.

It hit her back like a spray of icy needles.

Her muscles instantly contracted.

Her breathing hitched, but she did not step away.

She let the freezing water wash away the heavy smell of bleach and institutional soap, keeping the exposure calculated and brief. Stepping out quickly, she rigorously scrubbed her skin with the thin, scratchy towel until it turned red, instantly performing a rapid, silent set of isometric muscle flexes to force her core body temperature back to normal.

She raised her hand to her left collarbone.

Her fingers traced a thick, raised line of scar tissue.

The rough skin felt numb under the cold water.

A memory slammed into her brain.

Five years ago.

The top of the grand staircase.

Hailie.

Hailie.

The feeling of empty air.

The sickening crunch of her own collarbone snapping against the marble steps.

The fake medical reports that declared Gina a danger to herself.

Gina stared at the rusted metal wall of the shower.

The blank, empty look in her eyes vanished.

Her pupils dilated.

Her jaw locked so tight her teeth ground together.

The water running down her face felt like ice.

She turned off the shower.

She dried off with a thin, scratchy towel.

She picked up the clothes the butler left.

It was an old, faded maid.

The sleeves were two inches too short.

The fabric pulled tight across her shoulders.

The butler returned and led her back up the stairs.

He took her to the second floor.

They walked past the massive, double-door master suites.

They stopped at the very end of the hallway.

The butler opened the door to the smallest guest room.

The room was freezing.

The radiator was completely silent.

A cold draft blew in through the poorly sealed window, carrying the bitter chill of the New York autumn.

Gina walked in and sat on the edge of the hard mattress.

The springs groaned under her weight.

The bedroom door violently kicked open.

The wood splintered around the lock.

Gustaf stormed into the room.

His face was red.

The veins in his neck bulged against his tight shirt collar.

He held a thick stack of legal documents in his right hand.

He threw the papers directly at Gina.

The heavy pages hit her cheek and scattered across the cheap carpet.

"Sign the prenuptial agreement."

Gustaf stood over her.

His chest heaved.

"You will not touch a single penny of the Brooks family money. Every asset you acquire belongs to the Rollins family."

Gina looked at the papers on the floor.

She did not move.

She did not reach for the pen that rolled near her shoe.

She just sat there, staring at the blank wall opposite the bed.

Gustaf.

His hands balled into fists.

"You ungrateful psycho."

He took a massive step forward.

He reached out his large, heavy hand.

His fingers spread wide, aiming straight for the hair at the back of Gina.

He wanted to grab her and slam her face into the mattress.

His fingertips brushed the ends of her hair.

Gina moved.

Her body twisted to the left with terrifying speed.

She slipped entirely out of Gustaf.

Before his brain could process the empty air, Gina.

Her left hand shot up.

Her fingers clamped down on Gustaf.

She found the exact location of the radial styloid process.

She pressed her thumb directly into the ulnar nerve.

Gustaf gasped.

A sharp, electric shock of pain shot up his arm.

Gina used his forward momentum.

She twisted her hips.

She pulled his trapped arm down and across her body.

The leverage was flawless.

Gustaf.

He crashed face-first into the solid oak desk next to the bed.

The impact sounded like a baseball bat hitting a tree trunk.

Blood instantly pooled in his mouth.

He let out a guttural scream.

Gina did not stop.

She drove her right knee directly into the center of Gustaf.

She pinned him to the desk.

Her body weight pressed down on his central nervous system.

Gustaf tried to thrash his legs.

He tried to push himself up with his free hand.

He could not move a single inch.

The pressure on his spine paralyzed his motor functions.

The grip on his wrist felt like a steel vice crushing his bones.

Gina leaned down.

Her face was inches from his ear.

Her breathing was slow, steady, and completely calm.

"If you ever try to touch me again."

Her voice was a hollow whisper.

"I will turn the bones in this hand into dust."

She applied a fraction of an inch more pressure to his wrist.

Gustaf screamed again, his voice cracking in pure agony.

Gina let go.

She stepped back.

In less than a second, her shoulders slumped.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach and began to tremble violently.

She backed into the corner of the room, looking like a terrified animal.

Gustaf scrambled away from the desk.

He clutched his right wrist against his chest.

His chest heaved as he gasped for air.

He looked at the trembling girl in the corner.

The pain radiating up his arm was real.

The cold sweat dripping down his back was real.

For the first time in his life, Gustaf looked at his sister and felt absolute, paralyzing fear.

The morning light barely pierced the heavy velvet curtains of the first-floor study.

The butler knocked once on Gina.

He pushed the door open and coldly told her to go downstairs.

Gina walked into the study.

The room smelled of old paper and expensive leather.

Arthur Rollins sat behind a massive red oak desk.

His face was a mask of cold, hard stone.

Gustaf stood near the window.

A thick blue ice pack was strapped tightly around his right wrist.

Whenever he looked at Gina, his eyes darted away, filled with a toxic mix of hatred and fear.

Hailie sat on the leather sofa, her arm linked with Edwina.

Hailie wore a soft pink cashmere sweater.

She leaned her head on Edwina.

Arthur did not say good morning.

He pushed a silver iPad Pro across the smooth surface of the desk.

The metal scraped against the wood.

The iPad stopped at the edge, the screen facing Gina.

Arthur pressed his thick finger against the play button.

A video started playing.

The lighting in the video was dark and flashing with neon colors.

It showed a girl who looked exactly like Gina.

The girl was sitting on the lap of a heavily tattooed man at a filthy underground party.

The girl in the video leaned forward and snorted a line of white powder off a glass table.

The camera zoomed in.

The thick, jagged scar on the girl.

It was identical to the one Gina had.

"If you do not smile and play the perfect bride at the press conference tomorrow."

Arthur.

"I will send this video to the New York Times."

Hailie let out a soft, theatrical sigh.

She covered her mouth with her hand.

"It is so sad what those hospitals do to people. She is completely ruined."

Gina stared at the glowing screen.

Her eyes tracked the pixels.

Her brain, trained in the deepest sectors of the dark web, dissected the footage in milliseconds.

The rendering was sloppy.

She did not tremble.

She did not cry.

She reached out and grabbed the heavy leather chair in front of the desk.

She pulled it back.

The wooden legs screeched against the floorboards.

Gina sat down.

She crossed her legs.

She rested her hands on her lap.

Arthur.

His hands slammed down on the desk.

The coffee cups rattled.

"How dare you sit."

Gina ignored his outburst.

She looked directly into Arthur.

"The ambient lighting on the collarbone in frame 402 does not match the strobe effect of the background."

Her voice was flat and steady.

"The facial mapping glitches around the jawline when the subject turns her head past forty-five degrees."

She tilted her head slightly.

"And the shadow under the nose is cast from a light source that does not exist in that room."

The study went dead silent.

Arthur.

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

He stared at the girl in the faded maid.

He could not comprehend how a heavily medicated mental patient knew the technical flaws of a Deepfake video.

Gina leaned forward.

"But the public does not care about rendering flaws."

She tapped her finger against the edge of the desk.

"They only believe the scandals they want to believe."

She sat back.

"I will attend your press conference. I will be the perfect, obedient Rollins daughter."

Arthur.

"But I will not wear this trash."

Gina pinched the cheap fabric of her sleeve.

"I want a custom haute couture gown from Maison Étoile. The current season."

Hailie let out a sharp, high-pitched laugh.

She jumped up from the sofa.

"Are you insane?"

Hailie pointed at Gina.

"Maison Étoile does not sell to just anyone. A-list Hollywood actresses wait six months for a fitting."

Edwina stood up, her face flushed with anger.

"You greedy little rat. You do not deserve a single thread from that brand."

Gina stood up.

She slowly smoothed out the wrinkles on her faded jacket.

She looked at Arthur.

"If I do not have a Maison Étoile gown by tomorrow morning."

Gina smiled. It was a cold, dead smile.

"I will walk onto that stage wearing this exact hospital uniform."

She placed her hands on the desk and leaned closer to Arthur.

"Imagine the headlines. The Rollins family forces their beggar daughter to marry into the Brooks empire."

Gina lowered her voice.

"How many millions will your stock price drop in the first hour?"

Arthur.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ground audibly.

He was a man who worshipped money.

He calculated the cost of the PR disaster in his head.

The numbers terrified him.

He glared at Gina with pure venom.

"Alistair."

Arthur barked at his assistant standing by the door.

"Call the Maison Étoile flagship store in Manhattan. Pay whatever rush fee they want. Get the damn dress."

Hailie stomped her foot.

Her face twisted in ugly jealousy.

Arthur shot her a look so vicious it froze her in place.

She turned around.

Before walking away, Gina intentionally let her hand drag across the massive red oak desk. Her fingers brushed the edge, moving with blinding, practiced speed. In a fraction of a second, perfectly shielded by her own body and the distraction of their anger, she swept Arthur's spare smartphone off the corner and into her sleeve.

She walked toward the heavy oak doors.

She did not look back at the angry, defeated faces of her family.

As she reached the door, the cold smile returned to her lips.

She knew something they did not.

She was the absolute, sole owner of Maison Étoile.

As she walked down the carpeted hallway, she slipped her hand into her pocket.

Her fingers wrapped around the spare smartphone she had just stolen from the corner of Arthur.

Without looking at the screen, her thumb rapidly tapped out a heavily encrypted text message.