Oops! CEO, Your Substitute Bride Is A Hidden Boss!

The next morning, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom waited outside the Hayes villa, its polished surface gleaming like obsidian under the early sun.

Alfred Jennings, the butler, opened the rear door with impeccable precision, though his eyes carried a flicker of assessment. Cynthia and Holly lingered at the doorway, their smiles brittle and false. Alexandra passed them without a glance, her gaze fixed forward, and slid into the car.

As the estate faded in the rearview mirror, she felt nothing—no regret, no pull. The silence inside the vehicle pressed in, broken only by the engine's low hum.

Alfred extended a black card over the seat. "Miss Hayes, this is from Mr. Carlisle Sr. Unlimited credit."

Alexandra studied the card, a blatant offer of dependence, and her resolve hardened. She would not be bought or bound by Carlisle money. "My name is Alexandra," she said, her voice cool.

Alfred hesitated for a fraction of a second, then set the card on the empty seat beside her. "Yes, Miss Alexandra."

The car swept through heavily guarded gates into Carlisle Manor. Manicured lawns, classical fountains, and marble statues lined the drive, yet the grandeur felt like a gilded cage. Alexandra watched the scenery slide past, her mind already mapping the terrain of her revenge. This place was no paradise; it was her first foothold.

Alfred led her along a corridor hung with priceless oil paintings and paused before a set of massive double doors. "Miss Alexandra, this is Master Eldridge's room." Sadness edged his tone. He pushed the doors open, bowed, and withdrew, leaving her alone.

The room stretched wide and stark, decorated in cool shades of black, white, and gray. Medical monitors surrounded a large bed where a man lay perfectly still.

Alexandra approached. This was Eldridge Carlisle, her husband in name only. Even in his coma, his sharp, defined features held a natural aura of authority. She looked down at his lifeless face, and a cold smile touched her lips. A living shell. Perfect. It would save her a lot of trouble.

Yet, as she circled the bed, the monotonous beep of the life-support machines grated on her nerves. She stopped by his side, the weight of this forced arrangement settling over her. A sudden, inexplicable anger flared. Every humiliation she had suffered recently traced back to this man and his powerful family.

A rebellious smirk played on her lips. She glanced at the medical chart at the foot of the bed. No autonomic nerve response.

"No response, huh?" she murmured to herself.

In the next second, she did something that would have given any nurse a heart attack. She lifted her foot and kicked Eldridge Carlisle squarely in the side.

His large frame, slick against the silk sheets, rolled off the bed without resistance and landed with a soft thud on the plush carpet. The monitors shrieked with alarms for a moment, then fell silent, returning to their steady rhythm as if nothing had happened.

Alexandra looked down at the man on the floor, her hands shoved into her pockets. Her voice was lazy, provocative. "My bed. I don't like to share. Not even with a dead man."

In that moment, unseen by anyone, Eldridge's long, dark lashes seemed to tremble for a fraction of a second.

Ignoring the brief alarm, Alexandra's demeanor shifted. The flare of anger cooled, instantly replaced by the sharp, clinical detachment of a healer. She crouched beside him on the carpet, her slender fingers pressing firmly against the pulse point on his wrist, then moving to check the muscle tone in his neck.

Beneath her touch, his pulse was faint and erratic—a chaotic rhythm the machines barely captured. She closed her eyes, sensing the severe blockages in his system. It was critical, but not irreversible. He wasn't a lost cause; he just needed the right kind of intervention.

Opening her eyes, she studied his handsome, pale face, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. To think, the most elite, untouchable scion of the Carlisle family has been reduced to this—a helpless doll tossed onto the floor. The irony was almost tragic.

She stood up, leaving him on the rug, and walked over to the enormous walk-in closet to survey her new territory. She pulled her own things from her suitcase—a few simple T-shirts and jeans that looked utterly out of place among the racks of designer gowns. She didn't care about the luxury. She only cared about establishing her dominance here.

From her small carry-on bag, she retrieved an old, worn leather pouch. She unrolled it on a side table, revealing rows of silver needles, long and short, glinting coldly in the light.