The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The heavy oak door of the women's restroom would not budge.

Frieda Mercer shoved her shoulder against the wood. The metal maintenance sign rattled against the frame. Her lungs burned, pulling in the stale air of the Obsidian Club's dimly lit corridor.

Footsteps echoed behind her. They were heavy, uneven, and accompanied by a wet, sticky laugh that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

She snapped her head back. Through the shadows cast by the flickering wall sconces, Kian Maddox swayed around the corner. His tie was loose. His eyes were glassy and fixed entirely on her.

Frieda pushed away from the locked door. Her heels sank into the thick wool carpet, slowing her down. Panic squeezed her chest, making her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She ran down the hallway. There was nowhere else to go. At the very end of the corridor, a set of double walnut doors stood closed. The brass numbers 801 gleamed under a spotlight.

She grabbed the metal handle and pushed.

The door gave way. Frieda stumbled into the room and shoved the door shut behind her. She threw the deadbolt. The lock clicked into place with a heavy thud.

Total darkness swallowed her. The blackout curtains were pulled tight, cutting off the neon glow of Manhattan. She could not see her own hands.

Frieda pressed her back against the cold wood of the door. She gasped for air, trying to force her racing heart to slow down.

A sound broke the silence.

It was a low, suppressed cough. It came from the depths of the living room. It sounded painful, tearing through a throat that was already raw.

Frieda froze. The blood drained from her face. She stopped breathing. She pressed herself harder against the door, wishing she could melt into it.

Fabric rustled. Someone was moving on the sofa. A massive shadow rose in the pitch black.

Burke Terrell could not see. The side effects of his medication blurred his vision into a useless gray haze. His head throbbed with a blinding pain. But his instincts flared. Someone was in his room.

He moved toward the door. His voice was a low, violent rasp in the dark.

"Who sent you?"

The sheer force of his tone made Frieda's stomach drop. She reached behind her back, her fingers blindly searching for the deadbolt to unlock it and run.

Before she could turn the lock, the massive shadow lunged forward.

He didn't attack, but his knees buckled. His massive frame collapsed toward her, pinning her against the heavy door. Frieda panicked. She thought he was trying to overpower her. She fought back with everything she had. Her hands clawed at him in the dark, her nails catching and tearing the fine silk of his shirt, ripping the fabric wide open.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. They crashed onto the thick carpet together.

His bare, burning chest crushed against hers. His breath was a furnace against her neck. He was half-conscious, his hands blindly grasping, clamping down on her waist like iron vices. A low groan vibrated in his chest.

Frieda's mind spun into pure survival mode. She thought she was being violently assaulted, so she became the aggressor. She shoved her knee up hard, striking his leg. She twisted, her hands frantically shoving his heavy shoulders, scratching his skin.

He smelled like sharp cedar mixed with the bitter, sterile scent of strong medicine. Her brain blanked for a fraction of a second, but her hands didn't stop. She pushed him back so violently that his head struck the edge of a wooden side table with a sickening thud. His body went entirely limp, slumping onto the floor.

Frieda scrambled away, gasping for air. She had just violently attacked a helpless, sick man in a VIP suite. The realization hit her like a truck. She had assaulted him. If he woke up and remembered her, her life would be over.

A loud bang hit the door right next to her ear.

"Open the door, Frieda!" Kian yelled from the hallway. He kicked the wood.

Terror spiked in her veins. She slapped her hands against the surface of a coffee table. Her fingers found a pen and a paper napkin.

She uncapped the pen. Her hands shook as she scribbled down her new backup phone number in the dark. She shoved the crumpled napkin into his large, motionless hand, hoping the fake number would throw him off her trail. His fingers twitched.

Frieda unlocked the door and cracked it open. Down the hall, a loud crash echoed-a tray dropped by a startled waiter. Kian cursed and spun around to look at the commotion. In that split second of distraction, Frieda slipped out into the empty space of the hallway and ran.

The cold rain of Manhattan hit Frieda the second she pushed through the fire exit into the alleyway.

She shivered violently. The icy water soaked through her thin trench coat in seconds. She dug into her clutch with trembling fingers and pulled out her phone to call a cab.

Her wet fingers slipped. The phone tumbled from her grasp. It hit the wet asphalt with a crack.

Before she could bend down to grab it, a garbage truck roared down the narrow alley. The massive tires rolled directly over the device.

Frieda stared at the crushed plastic and shattered glass. She closed her eyes. The rain mixed with the cold sweat on her face. She kicked the useless pieces into the metal storm drain.

She pulled her coat tighter around her body and walked toward the subway station.

An hour later, Frieda pushed open the heavy front door of the Dillard family villa in Long Island. She stood in the entryway, dripping water onto the marble floor.

The massive living room was fully lit, but the air was suffocating. The sharp smell of whiskey burned her nose.

Her adoptive father, Russell Dillard, paced across the Persian rug. He gripped a gold-plated phone to his ear, begging the bank executive on the other end for an extension.

The line went dead. Russell let out a roar of frustration and hurled the phone at the marble fireplace. It shattered into pieces.

Frieda shrank back into the shadows. She wanted to slip down the stairs to her basement room before anyone noticed her.

A glass shattered in the dining room. Blair Dillard hurled her red wine against the white wall. The liquid dripped down like fresh blood.

Blair stood there, her makeup flawless, screaming at her mother, Meredith Dillard.

"I'm not marrying some dying freak who could drop dead any minute!" Blair shrieked.

Meredith reached out, trying to soothe her daughter. "The Terrell family trust fund is endless, Blair. Think about the money."

"I don't care!" Blair yelled. "I am not throwing my life away just because Dad got caught by the FDA. I won't be a widow for Dillard Pharmaceuticals!"

Frieda stopped breathing. FDA scandal. The words clicked in her head. The family business was on the edge of bankruptcy.

Russell stormed into the dining room. He pointed a shaking finger at Blair. "You ungrateful brat. We raised you for this. You will do your duty to this family."

"You ruined the company!" Blair screamed back.

Meredith sobbed into her hands. The family was tearing itself apart.

Frieda felt sick to her stomach. The cold from her wet clothes seeped into her bones. She took a step back, trying to retreat.

Her elbow clipped a blue-and-white porcelain vase on the entryway table. It wobbled and tipped over, hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

The screaming stopped.

Three pairs of eyes snapped toward the entryway. They locked onto Frieda.

Blair's eyes swept over Frieda's soaked, shivering form. A nasty, calculating light sparked in Blair's eyes. The corners of her mouth curled up.

Russell straightened his tie. His face shifted instantly. The rage vanished, replaced by a sickeningly fake smile. He walked toward Frieda.

"Frieda, sweetheart," Russell said. His eyes assessed her like a piece of meat on a butcher's block. "Why are you out in the rain?"

Frieda avoided his gaze. "I had an accident. I just want to take a hot shower."

Meredith walked over. She shoved a dry towel into Frieda's hands. Her grip was tight. "Stay right here."

Blair's high heels clicked against the marble. She stopped right in front of Frieda and reached out. Her red fingernails tipped Frieda's chin up.

"You are a part of this family too, Frieda," Blair said. Her voice was sweet, dripping with venom. "It's time you did your part."

Frieda slapped Blair's hand away. "I'm a medical student. What can I possibly do?"

Blair turned to her father. "The Terrell family just wants a Dillard bride. The contract doesn't specify which one. And that dying freak hasn't left his room in years. He doesn't know what I look like."

Russell and Meredith froze. They looked at each other. A silent, horrifying agreement passed between them.

Frieda's heart slammed against her ribs. The air left her lungs. She was surrounded by predators.

Russell turned back to Frieda. His voice was soft, but heavy with a threat. "We need to talk about how you are going to repay us for raising you, Frieda."

The silence in the living room was absolute. Only the thunder rumbling outside the windows broke the quiet.

Frieda stared at Russell. She stepped back, her wet shoes squeaking on the marble.

"This is fraud," Frieda said. Her voice was cold. "It is illegal. I won't do it."

Blair sneered. She looked at Frieda like she was dirt on her shoe. "You ate our food for twelve years. This is your payback."

Frieda clenched her jaw. "I am on a full scholarship. I haven't taken a dime from this family since I turned eighteen."

Meredith gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "You ungrateful wretch! We gave you a home!"

Russell held up a hand to silence his wife. He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey. He turned to Frieda, slipping into his negotiator persona.

"If you do this," Russell said, taking a sip, "I will fully fund your independent genetics lab when you graduate."

Frieda felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat. She knew his empty promises.

"No," Frieda said. She turned toward the stairs. "I am moving back to the dorms tomorrow morning. I'm done with this."

Blair shrieked. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the table and hurled it at Frieda's back.

Frieda twisted her body. The ashtray missed her spine but smashed against the wooden banister. A large shard of thick glass sliced across Frieda's calf.

Pain flared. Warm blood trickled down her cold skin.

Frieda did not look back. She limped down the stairs to the basement and slammed the door to her small, damp room. She threw the deadbolt.

She slid down the door until she hit the floor. Exhaustion crushed her chest.

She needed to call her medical school advisor. She reached into her pocket, but her fingers found nothing. Her phone was gone.

She scrambled to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She found her old backup phone. She pressed the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was dead.

Frieda grabbed a charging cable and plugged it into the wall. The red battery icon slowly blinked onto the screen. Her hands shook as she waited.

She was completely cut off. The man in room 801 was out there somewhere, and she had no way to know if he was alive or dead.

Footsteps pounded on the floorboards above her head. Furniture scraped against the wood. Blair was yelling again.

Ten minutes later, the backup phone powered on. Frieda dialed 911.

The call failed.

She stared at the screen. "No Service." She opened the Wi-Fi settings. The network was gone.

Her stomach plummeted. Russell had turned on the villa's signal jammer. He had cut her off from the world.

She jumped up and ran to the door. She grabbed the handle and yanked. It stopped with a hard clunk. The door was locked from the outside.

Frieda pounded her fists against the wood. "Open the door! This is false imprisonment!"

The butler's voice came through the wood, flat and emotionless. "Get some rest, Miss Frieda. The stylists will be here for you in the morning."

Frieda backed away from the door. She looked at the only window in the basement. It was a small vent near the ceiling, covered by thick iron bars welded into the concrete.

She sat on the edge of her narrow bed. The faint flashes of lightning illuminated the damp walls. She pulled her knees to her chest, her mind racing for a way out.

Miles away, in a private hospital in Manhattan, Burke's eyes snapped open.

He ripped the IV needle out of the back of his hand. Blood dripped onto the white sheets.

He threw a crumpled paper napkin at the chest of his bodyguard. His voice was a raw, violent roar. "Find her. Now."

The bodyguard caught the napkin, his hands shaking. "Sir, we tried. The number is disconnected. It doesn't exist."

Burke's eyes darkened. The muscles in his jaw ticked. The air in the room turned freezing cold.