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 as though it had been shattered and glued back together. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from deep within her muscles. She looked down at her bare shoulder-livid red marks bloomed against her pale skin.

A sharp hiss tore from her throat. Fragmented, hazy memories of the chaotic night before came flooding back.

She turned her head stiffly, her gaze falling on the tangled duvet, knotted together from the previous night's frenzy.

A man lay there, his broad, muscular back facing her. He was fast asleep.

A terrifying, jagged scar ran from his shoulder blade down to his waist. It exuded a raw, dangerous aura.

Serena bit her lower lip, tasting blood. She threw off the covers, her bare toes touching the cold carpet.

She moved with agonizing slowness, straining not to make a single sound.

*Thump.*

The moment she stood up, her legs turned to jelly. Her body gave out, and she collapsed onto the thickly carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

Reaching out with her trembling, weak hands, she grabbed the edge of the bedside table and used it to pull herself up.

"Mmhn..." A low, husky groan escaped the man on the bed.

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

She waited. The man shifted but did not wake.

Serena crouched down, her hands trembling as she gathered her clothes scattered across the floor.

Her silk dress was torn beyond repair.

Instead, she grabbed the man's oversized white button-down shirt, pulled it over her head, and fumbled clumsily with the buttons.

Barely dressed, she scanned the room for an escape route.

Suddenly, her gaze landed on a gold-stamped notepad on the bedside table.

She grabbed the heavy black pen and scrawled a sarcastic thank-you note across the paper in sharp, hurried strokes.

She rummaged through her battered wallet, pulled out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills, slapped them onto the bedside table, and weighed them down with the notepad.

She crept toward the door, her palms clammy with cold sweat.

She reached for the cold metal doorknob and turned it slowly.

The lock clicked.

She glanced back one last time at the enormous bed.

The man was still asleep. She slipped out through the heavy oak door and pulled it shut, locking the danger inside.

The hallway was dimly lit. She ran across the thick carpet, her breaths growing ragged and rapid.

She reached the elevator and jabbed the down button. The doors slid open. She lunged inside and pressed the close button repeatedly.

The elevator plummeted. She leaned against the cold metal wall, gasping for air.

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

The elevator doors opened in the lobby. She kept her head down, avoiding the concierge's gaze.

She pushed through the revolving door and ran out into the icy rain.

She raised her arm and hailed a yellow taxi. She dove into the back seat.

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

The taxi sped through the rain-soaked streets. Serena pulled out her phone.

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

A wave of despair washed over her, making her stomach clench.

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

Felix Beaumont's eyes snapped open. His gaze was sharp as an eagle's.

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

His jaw tightened. His expression darkened instantly.

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

A stifled, pained groan escaped his lips.

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

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

A vein bulged in his forehead. He crushed the paper into a tight ball and clenched it in his fist.

Felix swung his arm and slammed his fist down on the crystal lamp.

The glass shattered, raining down on the floor. A low, feral growl tore from his throat.

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

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

The taxi screeched to a halt outside Presbyterian Hospital.

Serena pushed open the door. She ran through the freezing rain, heading straight for the ICU.

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.