The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The heavy oak door of the women's restroom would not budge.

Frieda Mercer shoved her shoulder against the wood. The metal maintenance sign rattled against the frame. Her lungs burned, pulling in the stale air of the Obsidian Club's dimly lit corridor.

Footsteps echoed behind her. They were heavy, uneven, and accompanied by a wet, sticky laugh that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

She snapped her head back. Through the shadows cast by the flickering wall sconces, Kian Maddox swayed around the corner. His tie was loose. His eyes were glassy and fixed entirely on her.

Frieda pushed away from the locked door. Her heels sank into the thick wool carpet, slowing her down. Panic squeezed her chest, making her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She ran down the hallway. There was nowhere else to go. At the very end of the corridor, a set of double walnut doors stood closed. The brass numbers 801 gleamed under a spotlight.

She grabbed the metal handle and pushed.

The door gave way. Frieda stumbled into the room and shoved the door shut behind her. She threw the deadbolt. The lock clicked into place with a heavy thud.

Total darkness swallowed her. The blackout curtains were pulled tight, cutting off the neon glow of Manhattan. She could not see her own hands.

Frieda pressed her back against the cold wood of the door. She gasped for air, trying to force her racing heart to slow down.

A sound broke the silence.

It was a low, suppressed cough. It came from the depths of the living room. It sounded painful, tearing through a throat that was already raw.

Frieda froze. The blood drained from her face. She stopped breathing. She pressed herself harder against the door, wishing she could melt into it.

Fabric rustled. Someone was moving on the sofa. A massive shadow rose in the pitch black.

Burke Terrell could not see. The side effects of his medication blurred his vision into a useless gray haze. His head throbbed with a blinding pain. But his instincts flared. Someone was in his room.

He moved toward the door. His voice was a low, violent rasp in the dark.

"Who sent you?"

The sheer force of his tone made Frieda's stomach drop. She reached behind her back, her fingers blindly searching for the deadbolt to unlock it and run.

Before she could turn the lock, the massive shadow lunged forward.

He didn't attack, but his knees buckled. His massive frame collapsed toward her, pinning her against the heavy door. Frieda panicked. She thought he was trying to overpower her. She fought back with everything she had. Her hands clawed at him in the dark, her nails catching and tearing the fine silk of his shirt, ripping the fabric wide open.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. They crashed onto the thick carpet together.

His bare, burning chest crushed against hers. His breath was a furnace against her neck. He was half-conscious, his hands blindly grasping, clamping down on her waist like iron vices. A low groan vibrated in his chest.

Frieda's mind spun into pure survival mode. She thought she was being violently assaulted, so she became the aggressor. She shoved her knee up hard, striking his leg. She twisted, her hands frantically shoving his heavy shoulders, scratching his skin.

He smelled like sharp cedar mixed with the bitter, sterile scent of strong medicine. Her brain blanked for a fraction of a second, but her hands didn't stop. She pushed him back so violently that his head struck the edge of a wooden side table with a sickening thud. His body went entirely limp, slumping onto the floor.

Frieda scrambled away, gasping for air. She had just violently attacked a helpless, sick man in a VIP suite. The realization hit her like a truck. She had assaulted him. If he woke up and remembered her, her life would be over.

A loud bang hit the door right next to her ear.

"Open the door, Frieda!" Kian yelled from the hallway. He kicked the wood.

Terror spiked in her veins. She slapped her hands against the surface of a coffee table. Her fingers found a pen and a paper napkin.

She uncapped the pen. Her hands shook as she scribbled down her new backup phone number in the dark. She shoved the crumpled napkin into his large, motionless hand, hoping the fake number would throw him off her trail. His fingers twitched.

Frieda unlocked the door and cracked it open. Down the hall, a loud crash echoed-a tray dropped by a startled waiter. Kian cursed and spun around to look at the commotion. In that split second of distraction, Frieda slipped out into the empty space of the hallway and ran.