My Groom’s Mistress Tried to Kill Me for My Fortune

The moonlight cast long shadows across my art studio as I carefully slid the hidden panel away from the wall. Behind it, wrapped in silk, lay my old iPad—the one Chase didn't know about. The one I'd kept hidden for emergencies.

My fingers trembled as I powered it on. Three years of medication had made my hands shake more than I cared to admit. I glanced at the door, listening for any sound that might indicate Chase was awake. Nothing but silence.

I navigated to a private browser window and typed "Lorenzo Harper" into the search bar. Pages of results appeared—business mogul, self-made billionaire, the Harper family's black sheep. But nothing about the fire. Nothing about how he'd been framed.

I found his business website and clicked through to the contact page. There had to be a way to reach him directly.

Aha. An encrypted email option for "secure business inquiries." This would do.

My heart pounded as I typed:

"I know you didn't start the fire. I need the man who actually saved me to save me again. In exchange, I give you the Harper Empire."

I hesitated before pressing send. Was I crazy? Was I betraying Chase? No—Chase had already betrayed me.

The message disappeared into cyberspace. I shut down the iPad and returned it to its hiding place, my pulse racing with a mixture of fear and something else—hope?

---

Three hours later, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

"Blackstone Gallery. Chelsea. Midnight. Come alone."

Lorenzo.

I waited until Chase's breathing deepened into sleep before carefully transferring myself from the bed to my wheelchair. I dressed in black—a turtleneck to hide my face if needed, pants that wouldn't bunch uncomfortably in the chair.

Getting out of the penthouse was easier than I expected. The night doorman barely glanced at me as I slipped into the waiting car.

"Where to, Miss Anderson?" my driver asked.

"The Blackstone Gallery in Chelsea," I replied, keeping my voice steady.

The gallery was dark when we arrived, its windows like black mirrors reflecting the city lights. I hesitated at the door, suddenly afraid. What if this was a trap? What if Chase had found out?

The door opened silently, revealing a tall figure silhouetted against the dim interior light.

"Come in, Anna," Lorenzo Harper said, his voice deeper than I remembered.

I wheeled myself inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. The gallery was empty except for us, the artwork on the walls mere shadows in the darkness.

"You're taking quite a risk," he said, moving closer. His face was illuminated by a single spotlight from above, highlighting sharp features that seemed carved from stone.

"So are you," I replied, lifting my chin. "They say you're the family disgrace."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And yet here I am, about to make a deal with the woman who's supposed to marry my nephew."

"I'm not supposed to be anything," I said, my voice hardening. "I'm choosing my own path now."

His eyes—dark and intense—studied me for a long moment. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I know the truth about the fire."

Something flickered in his expression—pain, perhaps, or memory.

"What do you want, Anna?" he asked finally.

"A marriage alliance," I said boldly. "Help me destroy Chase, and I'll help you take back what's yours."

Lorenzo moved closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space. "I'll do it," he said, his voice low. "But on one condition."

"Name it."

"You follow my lead. Completely." His hand reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek in a touch so gentle it made my breath catch. "Can you do that?"

I nodded, unable to speak as his touch lingered on my skin—the first genuine human contact I'd felt in years.

---

"Dr. Evans will see you now," said the nurse, opening the door to a sterile examination room in what appeared to be a private medical facility.

"Where are we?" I asked Lorenzo, who stood beside my wheelchair.

"A safe house," he replied simply. "No one knows about this place except my most trusted people."

Dr. Evans entered—a woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes that belied her direct manner.

"We'll need to run some tests," she said after introducing herself. "An MRI and nerve conduction studies."

Hours later, I sat across from her as she reviewed the results on a tablet.

"Miss Anderson," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "your spinal cord shows complete healing. There's no neurological reason why you shouldn't be walking."

I stared at her, uncomprehending. "But the pain... the muscle spasms..."

She pulled up another screen. "These are your blood test results. You're being given high doses of a muscle relaxant—one that would induce temporary paralysis and muscle atrophy over time."

The room seemed to tilt around me as the truth sank in.

"Who would do such a thing?" I whispered.

Dr. Evans glanced at Lorenzo, who stood by the window, his expression unreadable.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what we're going to find out."