The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The clock ticked. Eight minutes left.

Russell stared at Frieda's cold face. The tears vanished from his eyes. The desperate father disappeared, replaced by the ruthless businessman.

He stood up and dusted off his knees. He looked at Meredith and gave a sharp nod.

Meredith stopped crying instantly. She reached into the cushions of the sofa and pulled out an iPad. She walked over to Frieda with a nasty smile.

She tapped the screen and turned the volume all the way up.

A video started playing. The footage was grainy, taken in a dark alley. But the audio was crystal clear.

Frieda frowned. The girl in the video had the exact same build as her. The girl was leaning against a brick wall, negotiating a disgusting transaction with three homeless men.

The girl in the video turned her face toward the camera.

Frieda's blood turned to ice. It was her face. Every feature, right down to the faint, petal-shaped birthmark on her earlobe, was identical.

Frieda snatched the iPad from Meredith's hands. She stared at the screen. Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a Deepfake. A highly advanced, flawless AI forgery.

She threw the iPad onto the sofa. "This is fake! It won't hold up in court!"

Meredith laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound. "Do you think the internet cares if it's fake? Do you think the Ethics Committee at your Ivy League medical school will care?"

Russell stepped behind Frieda. His voice slithered into her ear like a snake. "The moment this video hits the internet, your full scholarship is gone. You will be expelled. You will never hold a medical license. You will be a whore to the whole world."

Frieda's hands began to shake. Her chest tightened so hard she could barely pull in a breath. All her late nights studying, all her perfect grades, her entire future-held hostage by a fake video.

Five minutes left.

The heavy fists of the bodyguards pounded on the front door. The sound echoed through the room like a death march.

Russell shoved a thick stack of papers into Frieda's chest. He forced a Montblanc pen into her cold, trembling fingers.

"Sign the prenuptial agreement," Russell whispered. "Sign it, and the video gets deleted. In three years, you can divorce him and walk away clean."

Frieda stared at the contract. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

She thought of her advisor's proud smile. She thought of her lab. She could not let them destroy her life.

Three minutes left.

The doorknob rattled. Pierce's voice cut through the wood. "Time is up."

Frieda closed her eyes. A single, hot tear slid down her cheek. She opened her eyes. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, hard hatred.

She gripped the pen and slashed her signature across the bottom line of the contract.

Russell snatched the papers from her hands, his eyes wide with greedy relief.

Meredith dragged a massive garment box from the corner. She ripped the lid off and pulled out Blair's custom haute couture wedding dress.

She grabbed Frieda's wet coat and yanked it off her shoulders. Two maids rushed in and forced the heavy, freezing layers of silk and lace over Frieda's head.

The front doors burst open. Pierce stood in the doorway. His eyes landed on Frieda in the white dress.

He didn't ask her name. He didn't check her ID. He just extended his hand toward the driveway.

The two maids grabbed Frieda's arms and marched her out the door.

Right before she stepped off the porch, Frieda turned her head. She looked at Russell and Meredith standing in the doorway. She memorized their relieved faces. She swore to herself that she would make them pay for every second of this humiliation.

A bodyguard shoved her into the back of the armored Rolls-Royce. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing her inside.

The black convoy pulled away from the curb, driving into the storm.