The Billionaire's Blind Bride: No Mercy

Clive had been gone for twenty minutes.

Dahlia needed to pee. Again. The IV fluids were relentless.

She didn't want to call the nurse. She felt capable. She had the cane.

She got out of bed. She found the cane.

She walked toward the bathroom.

But the rug. The expensive, plush rug that Clive loved. It had a curled edge.

Her toe caught it.

Dahlia pitched forward.

She tried to catch herself, but the cane slid on the polished floor.

Crash.

She hit the ground hard. Her knee slammed into the tiles. Her wrist twisted under her.

Ow!

Pain shot up her arm. Tears sprang to her eyes instantly.

She lay there, gasping.

The door flew open.

Clive?

He'd made it to the lobby before an inexplicable dread coiled in his gut. He told the driver to wait and came back up, using the excuse of a forgotten pair of cufflinks he kept in his travel case.

He saw her on the floor.

Dahlia!

He dropped the cufflink box. It skittered across the floor.

He was by her side in a second.

Don't move. Where does it hurt?

My wrist, she sobbed. And my knee.

Clive swore. A string of colorful expletives she had never heard him use.

He scooped her up. He put her back in bed.

He pressed the call button. He kept his finger on it until a nurse ran in.

Check her wrist. Now.

While the nurse examined her, Clive paced the room. He looked like a caged tiger.

I leave for twenty minutes, he muttered. Twenty minutes.

I tripped, Dahlia said weakly. It's not your fault.

It is my fault, he snapped. I shouldn't have left.

The nurse confirmed it was just a sprain. She wrapped it. As she finished, Clive grabbed the call button again.

"Get Dr. Lin back in here. Now," he commanded, his voice dangerously low. "I want a full ophthalmic workup. Check the sutures, check for displacement. I don't give a damn what time it is."

He walked to the corner. He made a call.

Get me two private nurses. The best agency. I want 24-hour monitoring in this room. If she so much as sneezes, I want someone to hand her a tissue.

He hung up. He dialed again.

Arthur.

Yes, sir?

The Douglas credit line. The one pending approval for their Hamptons estate renovation?

Yes?

Kill it.

Sir?

Kill it. And call the bank. Tell them I'm pulling my personal guarantee on Don Douglas's business loans.

Clive... Arthur sounded terrified. That will trigger a margin call. They'll be forced to liquidate their summer property.

Good, Clive said. Let them feel the ground shift beneath their feet. This is just the beginning.

He hung up.

He walked back to the bed.

Dahlia was staring at him (or where she thought he was).

You didn't have to do that, she whispered.

Clive smoothed the hair back from her forehead. His hand was shaking slightly.

Yes, I did.

He kissed her forehead.

No one hurts you, Dahlia. Not gravity. Not your mother. Not even yourself. You're mine now. And I take care of what's mine.

Dahlia closed her eyes.

For the first time in her life, she felt safe.

And for the first time in his life, Clive Harrington felt fear. The fear of losing something that money couldn't buy.

He did not go to the gala. He sent a single, curt text to Arthur, canceling everything.

For the next three days, the VIP suite became his office and her sanctuary. He worked from the armchair, a silent, imposing sentinel in a suit, while a team of private nurses monitored her.

He was a tyrant about her medication schedule and the temperature of her tea, a quiet, constant presence that was both suffocating and profoundly comforting.

By the third morning, Dr. Lin cleared her for discharge. Clive had to attend a board meeting he could no longer postpone, but he made the arrangements.

第11章 11

The day of her discharge,Arthur Pendelton stood by the hospital curb like a sentry in a bespoke suit. The wind whipped at his coat, but he didn't flinch. In his gloved hands, he held the rear door of the black Rolls Royce Phantom open. The head nurse had just pressed a bouquet of champagne roses into Dahlia's arms. There was no card, just a heavy, sweet scent that made her dizzy. She assumed they were from Gia. Who else would send flowers that cost more than a week's groceries?

"Arthur," she said, her voice still raspy from disuse. "I can call an Uber. This is too much. People are staring."

They were staring. A Phantom parked outside a hospital entrance was a magnet for eyes. It screamed wealth, power, and secrets.

Arthur smiled, a tight, professional expression that didn't invite debate. "Mr. Harrington was quite specific, Mrs. Harrington. He insisted I handle your discharge personally. And he said that given your vision has not fully recovered, public transportation is medically non-compliant."

He threw the medical jargon at her like a shield. Dahlia knew when she was beaten. She slid into the backseat.

The interior was a different world. It was silent. The air was cool and smelled faintly of cedar and leather. Clive's smell. It wrapped around her, invasive and comforting all at once. She placed the flowers on her knees, careful not to let the thorns snag her cheap leggings.

Arthur slid into the driver's seat. The partition was down.

"Where to, Ma'am?"

Dahlia gave him the address in Brooklyn. She saw Arthur's eyes widen slightly in the rearview mirror as he punched it into the GPS. He didn't say anything. He just pulled the car into traffic, the engine purring like a large, tamed beast.

The drive was a study in contrasts. They left the clean, manicured streets of the Upper East Side. The buildings got shorter. The sidewalks got dirtier. The smooth asphalt gave way to potholes that even the Phantom's suspension couldn't entirely erase.

Dahlia stared out the tinted window. Her vision was still blurry, a watercolor painting of grays and browns. But she knew this neighborhood. She knew the graffiti on the bodega shutters. She knew the piles of trash bags that the sanitation trucks often skipped.

Arthur's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He locked the doors with a loud click as they turned onto her street.

A group of young men were loitering on the stoop of her building. They wore hoodies and smoked cigarettes that smelled sharp and acrid. When the massive black car rolled up, they stopped talking. One of them whistled. Another pointed.

Arthur parked. He looked at the building. It was red brick, crumbling at the corners. The fire escape was rusted.

"Ma'am," he said, his voice strained. "The dossier listed this address, of course, but it failed to convey the... severity of the environment. You reside here?"

Dahlia felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "It's affordable, Arthur. And the light in the studio is good for painting."

Arthur got out. He opened her door, placing his body between her and the men on the stoop. He glared at them until they looked away, shuffling their feet.

"I will escort you up," he stated.

"Please, you don't have to-"

"Mr. Harrington would fire me if I left you on the sidewalk."

They walked in. The lobby smelled of stale beer and damp wool. The elevator had an Out of Order sign taped to it that had been there since Christmas.

"We have to walk," Dahlia apologized. "It's the third floor."

Arthur carried her duffel bag. His polished shoes made sharp, out-of-place sounds on the concrete stairs. On the second floor landing, a dog barked aggressively from behind a thin door, the sound echoing in the stairwell. Arthur flinched, his hand instinctively moving to his waist, though he carried no weapon. He moved in front of her.

When they reached her door, Dahlia fumbled with her keys. The lock was sticky. She had to jiggle it.

She pushed the door open.

It was small. A studio. A bed in the corner, a small kitchenette, and a wall of windows that rattled in their frames. It was clean, but the linoleum was peeling in the corner, and there was a water stain on the ceiling that looked like a map of Australia.

Arthur set the bag down on the only table. He scanned the room. His eyes lingered on the window latch that looked broken, the lack of a deadbolt, the sheer vulnerability of the space.

Dahlia went to the sink. She took a glass from the drying rack-a free promotional glass from a fast-food chain-and filled it with tap water.

"Water?" she offered.

Arthur looked at the glass. He looked at the tap.

"No thank you, Ma'am. I must return to the office."

He backed out of the room as if he were leaving a crime scene.

Dahlia locked the door behind him. She slid the chain across. She leaned her forehead against the painted wood and exhaled. She was home. It was ugly, and it was unsafe, but it was hers.

Arthur sat in the car for a moment before starting the engine. He pulled out his encrypted phone.

He dialed.

Clive answered on the first ring. "Delivered?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is she?"

Arthur paused. He looked up at the third-floor window. A silhouette moved behind the sheer curtain.

"Sir, her living conditions... even by the standards of a struggling artist, they are unacceptable. A security nightmare."

"A Harrington does not live in a security nightmare," Clive's voice was sharp. He was in a board meeting; Arthur could hear the low murmur of voices in the background.

Arthur described the loiterers. The smell. The dog. The window that wouldn't lock. "It is a profound liability."

Silence on the other end.

Then, Arthur heard a chair scrape against the floor. The background voices stopped abruptly. Clive's voice returned, low and lethal. "She is a Harrington. To have her live in squalor is an insult to me."

Arthur waited. "Shall I arrange for her to be moved to the estate, sir?"

Clive was silent for a long moment. Arthur knew what he was thinking. Moving her into the penthouse would violate the cohabitation clause of their agreement, and it would alert his grandmother, Sylvia, before he was ready. It was a premature move.

"No," Clive commanded, his tone cold and decisive. "Leave her there for now. But buy the building. Use the shell company in the Caymans. I want the deed in my safe by five o'clock."

"The entire building, sir?" Arthur confirmed, though he knew the answer.

"The entire building. Pay the tenants to leave, evict them, I don't care. Gut the other units. I want her to be the only resident. Hire a private security firm to man the lobby 24/7. Replace every lock, every window. I want that building turned into a fortress by morning."

Arthur sighed. "Very good, sir."

He hung up. He put the car in gear. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror one last time. Dahlia Harrington had no idea she had just become the only tenant in the safest fortress in Brooklyn.