Substitute Bride: Healing The Ruthless Heir

Serena Sterling gasped, her eyes snapping open in the dim light of the Waldorf Astoria suite.

Every bone in her body felt like it had been shattered and glued back together. Her muscles ached with a deep, throbbing soreness.

She looked down at her bare shoulder. Bright red marks bloomed across her pale skin.

A sharp intake of breath tore through her throat. The chaotic, blurred memories of the night before crashed into her mind.

She turned her head stiffly. Her gaze cut through the tangled mess of the heavy duvet.

A man lay beside her, his broad, muscular back turned to her. He was fast asleep.

A terrifying, jagged scar stretched from his shoulder blade down to his waist. It radiated a raw, dangerous energy.

Serena clamped her teeth over her lower lip, tasting copper. She threw off the covers.

Her bare toes touched the freezing carpet. She moved with agonizing slowness, trying not to make a single sound.

The moment she stood up, her legs turned to jelly. She swayed and almost crashed to the floor.

She threw her hand out, gripping the sharp edge of the nightstand so hard her knuckles turned white.

The man on the bed let out a low, gravelly groan.

Serena froze. Her lungs stopped working. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She waited. The man shifted his weight but did not wake.

She crouched down, her hands trembling as she picked up the scattered clothes on the floor. The silk dress was so damaged that it couldn't be repaired. So she grabbed the oversized white button-down shirt from the man and put it over her head, clumsily feeling for the buttons with her fingers.

She scanned the room for an exit, her gaze falling on a gold-stamped notepad on the bedside table. She walked over and grabbed the heavy black pen. She hastily scribbled a sarcastic thank-you note on the paper, with sharp and hurried handwriting.

She rummaged through her worn-out wallet, pulling out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills. She threw the money onto the bedside table and pressed the heavy black pen over it.

She quietly made her way towards the door, her palms damp with cold sweat. She gripped the cold metal doorknob, slowly turning it, and the lock made a clicking sound.

She turned her head one last time to look at the huge bed.

The man was still asleep. She slipped out of the heavy oak door, closed it, and locked the danger inside.

The corridor was dimly lit. She ran over the thick carpet, her breathing becoming rapid and heavy. She reached the elevator and with a bounce pressed the downward button.

The elevator door slid open. She rushed in,repeatedly slamming the door closing button.

The doors slid open. She threw herself inside and mashed the close button repeatedly.

The elevator plummeted. She leaned against the cold metal wall, panting heavily.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears of frustration and lingering terror.

The doors opened at the lobby. She kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of the concierge desk.

She pushed through the revolving doors and ran out into the freezing rain.

She threw her arm up and flagged down a yellow cab. She dove into the backseat.

"Presbyterian Hospital," she told the driver, her voice trembling.

The cab sped over the waterlogged streets. Serena pulled out her phone.

She opened her banking app. The screen showed a balance of forty-two dollars.

A wave of absolute despair washed over her, making her stomach cramp.

Back in the suite, morning sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains.

Felix Beaumont snapped his eyes open. His gaze was as sharp as a hawk's.

He reached his hand out across the mattress. He felt only cold sheets.

His jaw tightened. His expression darkened instantly.

He threw the covers off and sat up. The sudden movement pulled at the old nerve damage in his back.

A muffled grunt of pain escaped his lips.

His eyes swept over the nightstand. He saw the notepad and the forty dollars sitting on top of it.

He snatched the paper up. He read the mocking words scrawled across it.

The veins in his forehead bulged. He crushed the paper into a tight ball in his fist.

Felix swung his arm and smashed his fist into the crystal table lamp.

Glass shattered and rained down on the floor. A low, furious roar tore from his throat.

He grabbed his phone and dialed his executive assistant, Seth. His voice was colder than ice.

"Lock down every transport hub in Manhattan," Felix ordered. "Dig up the entire city if you have to. Find that woman."

The cab jerked to a halt outside Presbyterian Hospital.

Serena pushed the door open. She ran through the cold rain, heading straight for the intensive care unit.

Serena burst into the hospital lobby. Her soaked canvas shoes squeaked loudly against the polished marble floor.

She practically ran down the crowded corridors. She reached the sterile isolation ward.

She pressed her hands against the cold glass, looking at her little brother, Simon. He lay there, pale and fragile, surrounded by machines.

Dr. Mason walked up to her, holding a thick stack of bills.

He looked at her with pity. He told her that Simon's trust fund account was completely empty.

Serena grabbed the doctor's sleeve. She begged him for a few more days.

Dr. Mason shook his head. He said the hospital administration gave the order. The medication would stop tomorrow.

Serena let go of his sleeve. She backed away until her shoulders hit the freezing wall.

She slid down to the floor and buried her face in her hands. Her chest heaved.

Her cracked phone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The name of her aunt, Giselle, flashed on the screen.

She took a deep breath, forcing her voice to steady. She pressed answer.

Giselle's shrill, arrogant voice pierced her ear.

"Get back to the Sterling estate in Long Island right now," Giselle ordered. "We have a family announcement."

Serena gritted her teeth and hung up.

She stood up, took one last look at Simon through the glass, and turned toward the subway station.

Sitting on the freezing metal bench at the platform, she pulled out a battered, heavy laptop from her bag. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the rapidly scrolling lines of encrypted code reflecting in her cold eyes. In this world, this was her only real weapon.

After a grueling subway ride and a long walk in the rain, Serena pushed open the heavy iron doors of the Sterling estate.

In the lavish living room, Giselle and her cousin Sylvia sat on a velvet sofa. They were sipping English tea.

Sylvia looked Serena up and down. Her eyes lingered on the oversized, damp men's shirt.

She sneered, calling Serena a piece of trash who spent the night in the gutter.

Serena ignored her. She stared directly at Giselle.

"What do you want?" Serena asked, her voice flat and cold.

Giselle set her teacup down on the saucer with a clink.

She stated her terms. Serena was going to take Sylvia's place and marry into the Beaumont family.

Serena's eyes widened. Everyone in New York knew the Beaumont heir, Felix, was a crippled, disfigured madman after his car crash.

Sylvia stood up. She walked over and pointed a manicured finger at Serena.

"I am not marrying a cripple," Sylvia spat. "That garbage is exactly what you deserve."

"No," Serena said instantly. She turned around, ready to walk out of this toxic house.

Giselle let out a dry laugh. She picked up a manila folder and slammed it down on the mahogany coffee table.

Serena stopped. She looked at the document. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

It was a mandatory transfer consent form for Simon.

Giselle smiled cruelly. She said if Serena refused the marriage, the Sterling family would cut off all medical sponsorship for Simon immediately.

Serena lunged forward. She stopped inches from Giselle.

Her hands balled into fists. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that drops of blood welled up.

Sylvia stepped up and poked Serena hard in the shoulder. She told her to wake up and accept her pathetic reality.

A fleeting thought flashed through her mind-with a precise angle and just enough force, she could easily snap Sylvia's neck right here in this lavish room. She forced her muscles to relax, burying that lethal instinct deeply rooted in her bones.

She closed her eyes. Simon's pale, smiling face in the isolation tank filled her vision.

The room was dead silent. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner, counting down the seconds of her freedom.

Serena opened her eyes. The anger was gone. Only a terrifying, calculating ice remained.

She slapped Sylvia's hand away. The movement was so fast and violent that Sylvia stumbled backward.

Serena locked eyes with Giselle. Her voice was hoarse but steady.

"I have conditions."

Giselle rolled her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. She assumed Serena wanted money for a new dress.

Serena swallowed the bile in her throat. She agreed to the absurd substitute marriage, trading her life for her brother's.

Serena did not wait for Giselle to respond. She shoved past Sylvia, her shoulder hitting the other woman hard.

She walked straight toward the grand staircase.

Giselle yelled after her, demanding she show some respect.

Serena tuned her out. She marched down the second-floor hallway and stopped in front of Trevor's study.

She did not knock. She pushed the heavy oak doors open, the hinges groaning loudly.

Trevor was sitting behind his desk, holding a phone to his ear.

He slammed the receiver down. He shouted at her for barging in like a wild animal.

Serena walked right up to his desk, her face devoid of emotion.

She planted both hands flat on the polished wood. She leaned over, staring down at her so-called uncle.

"If you want me to marry that cripple, you pay me first," Serena said. "I want my five million dollar trust fund released today."

Trevor laughed in her face. He called her a trailer park rat who had no right to demand a single cent.

Serena reached into the pocket of her damp jeans. She pulled out a scratched USB drive.

She tossed it onto Trevor's leather desk pad. It landed with a dull thud.

She recited the last four digits of three offshore bank accounts. She named the shell companies the Sterling family used to evade federal taxes.

The color drained from Trevor's face. He stared at her, his mouth hanging open. Beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead.

"If the money isn't in my account in five minutes," Serena said softly, "this drive goes straight to the IRS."

Trevor ground his teeth together. His hands shook as he pulled his laptop closer.

He logged into the offshore banking portal.

The rapid clacking of the keyboard filled the silent room.

Five million dollars was wired directly into Serena's private account.

Serena felt her phone vibrate. She looked at the screen. The deposit confirmation was there.

The tight knot in her shoulders finally loosened.

She snatched the USB drive off the desk. She turned her back on Trevor's murderous glare and walked out of the room.

Back in her cramped, dusty attic bedroom, she opened her laptop.

She wired the entire sum directly to Presbyterian Hospital's billing department.

She stared at the screen until the receipt confirmed Simon's medical care was covered for the next three years.

She collapsed backward onto her hard mattress, staring at the ceiling.

The next morning, a steady drizzle fell from the gray sky.

A massive, black bulletproof Lincoln pulled up to the front gates of the estate.

Serena walked down the stairs. She wore a cheap but clean black suit. She carried a scuffed suitcase with a broken zipper.

Giselle and Sylvia stood on the second-floor balcony. They watched her leave with looks of utter disgust.

The Beaumont family driver stood by the car. He kept his hands clasped in front of him. He made no move to help her with her bag.

Serena didn't care. She hoisted the heavy suitcase and shoved it into the trunk herself.

She opened the door and slid into the back seat.

The Lincoln accelerated smoothly, pulling away from the cold, loveless house.

The scenery outside the tinted windows shifted. The modest suburbs gave way to the ultra-exclusive enclaves of Long Island.

Serena rested her head against the cold glass. She watched the trees blur past. Her eyes were sharp, calculating the risks ahead.

The car turned onto a private road. A sprawling, castle-like estate loomed in the distance.

Massive black iron gates slowly swung open. The heavy metal hinges shrieked in the damp air.

Armed private security guards flanked the entrance. Their eyes scanned the vehicle like searchlights.

Serena noticed their stances immediately. The way they held their rifles, the way they distributed their weight. They were top-tier ex-mercenaries.

The Lincoln rolled onto the Beaumont estate.

The iron gates slammed shut behind her with a deafening clang, cutting off her only escape route.