The Mute Heiress: My Ruthless Husband's Prize

The smell hit her first. It was the sharp, chemical sting of antiseptic mixed with the cloying scent of wilting flowers. Elenor Becker tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt like they were weighted down with lead coins. Her body was a map of dull aches, a heavy, throbbing reminder of the crash that had turned her world upside down.

She forced her eyes open. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room burned, making her wince. Her vision swam, blurring the edges of the room until they slowly sharpened into focus.

The first thing she saw was Ursula.

Her aunt was standing by the bedside, her makeup flawless, her pearls glowing softly under the artificial light. But there was no warmth in her eyes. Ursula wasn't looking at Elenor's face. She was looking at the monitors, her gaze calculating, like a trader watching a ticker tape. She didn't reach for the call button. She didn't smooth Elenor's hair. Instead, she leaned in, her perfume-something expensive and heavy-clogging Elenor's throat. Ursula's fingers, cold and manicured, pried Elenor's eyelid open further to check her pupil response. It was an appraisal, not a comfort.

Elenor tried to pull back, but her muscles refused to cooperate. A sharp intake of breath was all she could manage. She tried to speak, to ask what happened, but her throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. A dry, raspy hiss of air escaped her lips. Nothing more. The silence that followed was terrifying.

The heavy wooden door to the VIP suite pushed open.

Julian Thorne walked in. He was holding a bundle of lilies wrapped in crinkling plastic, the kind you bought at a gas station on the way to a funeral. He wore a suit that fit him poorly around the shoulders, and on his face was a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a smile made of oil and ambition.

The heart rate monitor beside the bed began to beep faster. The sound filled the room, a frantic, electronic drumbeat that betrayed Elenor's panic.

Ursula's hand shot out, clamping down on Elenor's wrist. She squeezed hard, pinning Elenor's arm to the mattress.

"Poor thing," Ursula cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You're just frightened. It's the trauma."

Julian sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Elenor felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. He placed the cheap flowers on the bedside table and reached for her free hand.

"I'm here, El," Julian said. His voice was smooth, practiced. "I've been here the whole time. Your fiancé isn't going anywhere."

Elenor's eyes went wide. She stared at him, her chest heaving. Fiancé? She had never agreed to marry him. She had spent the last year dodging his calls and his unwanted advances at charity galas. She tried to yank her hand away, but she was too weak.

Julian didn't let go. He stroked the back of her hand with