The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

The housekeeper, Mrs. Sterling, led Ainsley to a room that felt more like a walk-in freezer than a guest suite. It was in the furthest corner of the house, dusty and cold.

"Dinner is at seven," she said, and closed the door.

Ainsley didn't care about the dust. She checked the room. She looked under the lamps, behind the paintings. She didn't know why she was doing it, but her fingers moved with a practiced paranoia.

Clear.

Ainsley showered in the attached bathroom, scrubbing the hospital smell off her skin until it was raw. She had no clothes, so she wrapped herself in a thick, white bathrobe she found in the closet.

The house was a labyrinth of silence. Under the guise of her amnesia, she had the perfect cover to explore. She needed a layout. She needed to know the security patterns, the staff rotations. She needed to find his office.

She tied the robe tighter and opened the door. The hallway was empty. She moved silently, her bare feet making no sound on the thick Persian runners.

She passed dozens of closed doors. Portraits of dead Eatons stared down at her with cold, judgmental eyes. She found what she was looking for at the end of the west wing: a heavy oak door, slightly more modern than the others, with a small, discreet keypad next to the handle.

Carson's study. The heart of the kingdom.

Ainsley examined the keypad. A standard six-digit system. Too many combinations to guess. But the keys for 2, 5, 8, and 9 were slightly more worn than the others. A start.

As Ainsley leaned closer, a floorboard creaked behind her.

She didn't think. She spun around, her body low, ready to react, her face a mask of vacant confusion.

The piano teacher she'd seen earlier stood there, holding a stack of sheet music. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Mrs. Eaton," she huffed. "You gave me a fright. Are you lost?"

"Oh," Ainsley said, putting a hand to her chest and letting out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't know where I am. This house is so big." She looked at the oak door as if seeing it for the first time. "What's in here?"

"Mr. Eaton's private study," the teacher said, her tone clipped and disapproving. "No one is allowed in."

"Oh, of course," Ainsley said, stepping back with a display of meek apology. "I'll just... I'll try to find my way back."

She turned and walked away, her posture deliberately unsteady. But in her mind, she was already mapping the house, logging the teacher's presence, and calculating the odds of cracking that code.

She didn't see the figure standing in the hallway, just out of sight.

Carson stood there, his hand resting on the doorframe of a nearby room. He had heard the entire exchange. The floorboard creak. The teacher's sharp intake of breath. Ainsley's soft, confused voice.

But he had also heard the silence before that. The utter lack of sound from her approach. It was the silence of a predator, not a lost sheep.

His grip on his cane tightened. He stood there for a long time, then turned and walked away silently.