The Sick Tycoon's Unwanted Substitute Bride

The morning sun blasted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private study attached to the master bedroom.

Burke sat in a leather chair, wearing a black silk robe. He tapped his pale fingers against the mahogany desk. A Bluetooth earpiece flashed blue in his ear.

"Say that again," Burke whispered. His voice was dangerously quiet.

Pierce's voice trembled through the earpiece. "Sir, the tech team traced the number on the napkin. It was a burner. It was activated yesterday and destroyed last night. It's a dead end."

Burke's fingers stopped tapping.

"And the security footage from the Obsidian Club?" Burke asked.

"There was a power surge. The cameras in the VIP hallway were fried. The footage is gone."

Burke's vision tinted red. The veins in his neck bulged. The girl from 801 had vanished. She had played him.

He ripped the earpiece out of his ear and hurled it at the wall. It shattered into plastic pieces.

He stood up, his chest heaving with rage. He grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the desk and threw it at the window.

The thick bulletproof glass didn't break, but the impact sounded like a bomb. The ashtray bounced off and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces on the hardwood floor.

The study door creaked open.

Frieda stood in the doorway holding a cleaning rag. She had heard the crash and came to check.

She saw the destroyed ashtray and Burke standing there, looking like a demon ready to kill. She instantly knew she had made a mistake.

She took a step back.

Burke's eyes snapped to her. All the rage he felt toward the missing girl transferred directly onto the woman standing in front of him.

"Who told you to spy on me?" Burke hissed. He stalked toward her.

Frieda held her ground. "I heard a crash. I came to see if you were hurt."

Burke let out a cruel, barking laugh. "Don't play the caring wife with me. It makes me sick."

He pointed a shaking finger at the shattered crystal on the floor.

"Clean it," he ordered. "And don't use a broom. Use your hands and that rag. Pick up every single piece."

Frieda looked at the tiny, razor-sharp shards of crystal. It was impossible to do by hand without getting cut. This was punishment for simply existing.

She looked up at him. "That is inefficient. I will get a vacuum."

Burke closed the distance between them in one step. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was brutal, crushing her bones together.

"In this room, my word is the law," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "If this floor isn't spotless in thirty minutes, Dillard Pharmaceuticals gets a demand letter from the bank today."

Frieda's jaw locked. The threat hung over her head like a blade. She hated the Dillard family, but she couldn't break the contract on day two.

She yanked her wrist out of his grip. A bright red ring marked her pale skin.

She turned around, walked to the bathroom, and grabbed a pair of yellow rubber gloves and a small trash can.

She walked back into the study. She dropped to her knees on the hard wood floor. She began to sweep the tiny shards of crystal into her gloved hand.

Burke stood over her. He watched her crawl on the floor at his feet. He waited for the satisfaction to hit him. He waited to feel powerful.

But looking at her straight spine and the focused, quiet dignity in her face, he felt nothing but a sickening wave of self-loathing.