The Mute Heiress: My Ruthless Husband's Prize

Ursula let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-shriek. She scrambled for the paper on the floor, her nails scratching against the linoleum.

"This is a forgery!" she yelled, her face flushing a blotchy red. "Elenor has never-she would never-"

Hilliard's head of security, a man built like a vending machine, stepped in front of Ursula. He didn't touch her. He just existed in her path, a wall of muscle that halted her advance.

Julian was shaking his head, a nervous laugh bubbling up from his throat. "This is ridiculous. I'm her fiancé. We have a history. You can't just walk in here with a piece of paper and-I'm calling the police."

Hilliard laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Please do," he said. "My legal team at Blackburn Industries is bored. They've been looking for someone to sue for defamation. I believe accusing me of fraud would be a good start."

The name Blackburn Industries hit the room like a physical blow. Ursula froze. She looked from the document to Hilliard, the realization dawning on her. This wasn't just a rich man. This was a man who could buy her debt and foreclose on her house before lunch.

Hilliard checked his watch. A Patek Philippe. "My assistant is with the hospital director now, verifying my legal standing as next of kin," he said, his gaze sharp and dismissive. "You have ten seconds before they arrive with hospital security to escort you out for trespassing."

The security team moved. They didn't ask. They grabbed Julian by the elbow and Ursula by the shoulder. Julian shouted something about rights, his voice cracking, as he was dragged backward. Ursula tried to maintain her dignity, smoothing her skirt as she was guided firmly out the door.

The heavy door clicked shut. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension.

Hilliard turned back to the bed. He pulled a chair over, the metal legs scraping against the floor. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, looking relaxed but alert. Like a predator watching a wounded deer.

Elenor gripped the sheets with her good hand. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She stared at him, trying to find a memory, a trace of him in her past. There was nothing.

Hilliard reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a slim tablet. He unlocked it and slid it onto the mattress, right next to her hand.

"I know you can't speak," he said. "Look at this."

Elenor looked down. The screen displayed a high-resolution scan of a marriage license. It was dated three months ago. Her eyes scanned to the bottom. There, in blue ink, was her signature. It was messy, rushed, but it was hers.

A memory flashed in her mind. Her grandfather's study. The smell of old paper and medicine. He had been dying. He had shoved a stack of documents in front of her-trust amendments, power of attorney, stock transfers. Sign here, Elenor. It's for your protection. Sign here.

She had signed everything. She hadn't read a word.

Hilliard watched her face, analyzing the micro-expressions. "I see you remember now," he said. "Your grandfather was a desperate man. He leveraged his company, his estate, even his granddaughter to cover his debts to me. You were the final collateral."

Elenor felt a flush of anger rise up her neck. She glared at him, her mouth opening to form words that wouldn't come. A frustrated hiss escaped her throat.

Hilliard took the tablet back. He swiped the screen. "This is the NDA. And the Prenuptial Agreement."

He began to read, his voice devoid of emotion. "During the marriage, you will maintain the public image required by the Blackburn board. You will attend functions. You will smile. In exchange, I absorb the Becker family debt and ensure your aunt doesn't liquidate your trust."

It was a transaction. She was a line item.

Elenor reached for the tablet. She wanted to see the clauses. Her fingers brushed against Hilliard's hand. His skin was cool.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over and caught her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but absolute. He leaned forward, invading her personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and tobacco.

"Listen to me, Elenor," he said softly. "I don't care about your past. I don't care if this silence is real or some trauma response. But from today on, you are Mrs. Blackburn. If you create a scandal, my stock drops. If my stock drops, I become unhappy."

He looked deep into her eyes, searching for compliance.

"So, be a good girl. Do we understand each other?"

Elenor stared at him. She hated him. She hated his suit, his arrogance, his grip on her wrist. But she looked at the door where Ursula had been dragged out. She thought of the vultures waiting to pick her bones clean.

She needed a shield. Even if the shield was a monster.

Slowly, stiffly, she nodded.