The Mute Bride's Secret Billionaire Contract

The silence that followed Arnulfo's departure was short-lived.

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She wasn't wearing her mask of servitude anymore. Her face was twisted in ugly triumph.

"Since the Master is gone," Higgins said, her voice grating, "as the mistress of the house, you have duties. The wine cellar needs inventory."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and marched toward the basement door.

Erline wiped her mouth with a napkin and followed. She knew this was a power play, but she had to learn the layout of the house anyway.

The wine cellar was two levels down. The air grew colder with every step, smelling of damp earth and old cork. It was dimly lit by flickering bulbs in wire cages.

Rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into the darkness. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in alcohol.

"Count them," Higgins ordered, pointing to a wall of crates. "If one bottle is missing, I will tell Mr. Bond you drank it."

Erline looked at the wall. It would take hours. She didn't argue. She stepped forward and began to count, her finger hovering over the bottles.

Higgins didn't leave. She stood on the bottom step, watching.

"Don't think wearing Chanel makes you anything other than what you are," Higgins spat. "You're just a whore he bought to breed with. A mute whore."

Erline's hand paused over a bottle of 1982 Bordeaux. She took a breath and continued.

Higgins, emboldened by the lack of reaction, stepped down. She walked up behind Erline and shoved her hard between the shoulder blades.

"Are you listening to me?"

Erline stumbled forward. She crashed into the wooden rack. A bottle wobbled and tipped over.

Reflex took over. Erline lunged, catching the bottle by the neck just before it hit the stone floor.

But as she caught it, the back of her hand scraped violently against the rough, unfinished wood of the rack. A splinter tore through her skin. Blood welled up instantly, bright red against her pale skin.

Higgins saw the blood and smiled. She reached out and grabbed Erline's injured arm, digging her nails into the wound.

"Does that hurt?" Higgins whispered. "I can make it hurt more."

Pain shot up Erline's arm. Her eyes went cold.

She shifted her weight. She knew Krav Maga. She knew exactly how to grab Higgins' thumb and snap it backward to break the joint. It would take one second.

She tensed her muscles, ready to strike.

Step. Step. Step.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs above. Leather on stone.

Erline released her tension instantly. She let her body go limp. She allowed herself to fall to the floor, curling in on herself, clutching the bottle to her chest like a shield.

Arnulfo appeared at the top of the stairs. He had come back.

He stopped. He took in the scene. Erline on the floor, bleeding. Higgins standing over her, face twisted in malice, hand still raised.

The temperature in the cellar seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Sir!" Higgins gasped, jumping back. "She... she fell! She's clumsy!"

Arnulfo walked down the stairs. He moved slowly. The sound of his shoes was the only sound in the room.

He walked past Higgins as if she were furniture. He knelt beside Erline. He took her hand, the one dripping blood onto the dusty floor.

He looked at the cut. Then he looked at the bottle she was still clutching. It was unbroken.

He stood up and turned to Higgins. His expression was terrifyingly blank.

"Are you deaf, Mrs. Higgins?"

Higgins was trembling now. "Sir?"

"I said she is my asset," Arnulfo said softly. "You damaged my property."

"I..."

"Can you afford to pay for her?" Arnulfo asked. "Can you afford the repairs?"

Higgins fell to her knees. "Please, Mr. Bond."

Arnulfo looked toward the stairs. "Security."

Two guards came down.

"Throw her out," Arnulfo said, boring. "Ensure she is blacklisted from every agency in the state. If she finds work walking a dog, I will be disappointed."

Higgins screamed as they dragged her up the stairs. Her nails scraped against the stone.

Arnulfo looked down at Erline. He didn't offer her a hand.

"Clumsy," he muttered. "Get upstairs. You're bleeding on my vintage."