It had been exactly four years since I was dragged out of these very gates in the dead of night.

Back then, I was shivering, poisoned, and branded a permanent disgrace to the Mercer family name.

They had dumped me in a remote mountain village to rot and die. They thought I would just disappear. They thought the poison running through my veins would finish the job.

But I didn't die.

Now, I stood before the grand entrance once more.

In the sunken living room, my biological parents, Richard and Evelyn Mercer, sat stiffly on a tufted velvet sofa.

Beside them sat Candice. The "Fake Daughter."

The girl my parents had adopted before miraculously finding me, their biological child.

But they quickly realized they preferred the polished, obedient fake over the rough-around-the-edges real one.

"You're late," Evelyn snapped.

I walked forward, my expression completely blank. "Traffic."

"We didn't bring you back from that backwater village to catch up, Lorraine," he said coldly. "The Mercer Corporation is facing a severe liquidity crisis. The Sinclair family has offered us a massive capital injection, but it comes with a non-negotiable condition."

He paused, his eyes locking onto mine. "A marriage."

Candice immediately dabbed her perfectly dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"Lorraine, I'm so sorry," her soft, fragile voice rang out. "I wanted to fulfill the contract, I really did, but my health... the doctors say my heart simply couldn't take the stress."

"The groom is Brandon Sinclair," Richard interrupted.

My eyes flickered, though my expression remained entirely placid.

The ruthless, untouchable tyrant of the capital’s business world. Or, at least, he was—until a horrific car accident a month ago left him paralyzed from the waist down.

Rumors whispered that his face had been horribly disfigured by the ensuing fire. The chronic pain had allegedly reduced his temperament to that of a violent, dying beast.

The doctors had given him less than six months to live.

The Sinclair elders were desperate. They were demanding a bride to ward off the bad luck—a superstitious, traditional marriage meant to cheat death.

"Candice is far too frail to endure a man like that," Evelyn said coldly, lifting her chin. "And she is already happily engaged to Ashton."

She looked at me like I was a piece of trash on the side of the road.

"You, on the other hand, have ruined your reputation. No decent family in this city would ever take you in after the scandal you caused four years ago. This is your chance to finally be useful. To repay the family that gave you life."

Just then, footsteps echoed sharply from the grand marble staircase.

Ashton descended, looking every bit the arrogant, golden-boy heir.

He bypassed me entirely, walking straight to Candice and wrapping a fiercely protective arm around her delicate waist.

Then, he turned his gaze to me.

He was my childhood fiancé. The man who was supposed to marry me.

We had grown up together. I had once looked at him with stars in my eyes.

But the moment Candice framed me, he didn't even hesitate. He threw me away like garbage.

"Don't try to play the victim here, Lorraine," Ashton sneered, his lip curling. "You should be on your knees thanking us. With your tainted history, marrying into the Sinclair family—even to a dying cripple—is a massive step up for a country bumpkin like you. You'll be a widow in a year with a fat settlement."

He actually had the nerve to say that to me!

"Just sign the papers, keep your head down, and stay out of Candice's way," Ashton warned, his voice dripping with malice. "Don't think for a second you can use this tragic little arrangement to get back at me or ruin our happiness. You and I are finished."

The room fell silent.

They expected tears. They expected me to fall to my knees, to scream about the unfairness of it all, to beg them not to send me to the bed of a disfigured monster.

Instead, I let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

"Where are the papers?" I asked.

Richard frowned, visibly taken aback by my eerie calm. Hesitantly, he pushed a thick, leather-bound folder across the glass coffee table.

I leaned over, picked up the gold Montblanc pen lying next to the folder, and flipped to the last page.

I didn't read the terms. I simply signed my name with a sharp, elegant flourish.

I tossed the pen back onto the table. It clattered loudly, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stunned silence of the living room.

"There," I said, my lips curving into a faint, mocking smile.

I shifted my gaze directly to Ashton. His smug, arrogant expression was rapidly beginning to falter into confusion.

"Though, Ashton, you really should watch your tone from now on."

Ashton bristled. "Excuse me?"

"I signed the papers," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, silken purr. "Which means I am now officially married to your older brother Brandon who owns your company. That makes me your sister in law and boss."

Ashton’s face drained of color, then flooded with a mottled, ugly shade of red.

I tilted my head, my eyes flashing with a dark, predatory amusement.

"I expect you to greet me with proper respect at the next family dinner, brother in law."

"You—!" Ashton stepped forward, his fists clenching.

But I had already turned my back on him.

"Goodbye, Mother, Father," I said over my shoulder, my voice echoing in the grand hall. "Take care of your health. You're going to need it."

The room was exactly as I had left it four years ago.

Bare, cold, and tucked away in the farthest corner of the second floor, right next to the servant's quarters.

I didn't have much to pack. A few faded dresses, a worn coat, and the tarnished silver locket my mother had given me when I was a child.

That was before she decided Candice was the daughter she truly wanted.

I tossed the meager belongings into a small duffel bag.

Zip.

That was it. My entire existence in the Mercer household, reduced to a single bag.

I paused, looking at the sterile walls. A lingering ache throbbed in my chest.

It wasn't sorrow for leaving.

It was the final, suffocating confirmation that to Richard and Evelyn Mercer, I wasn't a daughter. I was a tool. Disposable trash meant to be used and discarded when convenient.

The terrified eighteen-year-old girl who had cried and begged for her parents' love four years ago was officially dead.

Good riddance.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder and walked down the dimly lit hallway.

The house was quiet, the staff already dismissed for the evening. As I approached the grand staircase, a sliver of yellow light spilled across the Persian runner.

It came from the cracked door of my father's mahogany-paneled study.

I wouldn't have stopped if I hadn't heard my name.

“…Lorraine is stupid enough to just keep her head down.”

It was Ashton.

His voice lacked the arrogant, booming confidence he had displayed in the living room earlier. Now, he sounded petulant. Bitter.

I pressed my back against the cold wall, inching closer to the crack in the door.

“You worry too much, Ash,” Candice's voice drifted out.

Gone was the fragile, breathy tone she used to manipulate my parents. Her voice was sharp, calculating, and dripping with venom.

“She’s a country bumpkin. She doesn't know how the capital works.”

“I don't care about her,” Ashton hissed.

The sound of his heavy footsteps pacing the room reached my ears.

“I care about Brandon! The man is a half-dead cripple. He’s a burned, paralyzed freak with six months to live, yet the Sinclair elders still refuse to officially name me the heir!”

He let out a frustrated breath.

“They're holding out hope for a miracle. It's humiliating!”

“Then we don't wait six months,” Candice said smoothly.

The sound of liquid pouring into a crystal glass echoed in the quiet study.

“We speed up the inevitable.”

Ashton stopped pacing. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying his daily medication is heavily regulated, but accidents happen, darling,” Candice murmured.

“A slight dosage increase in his pain management IV. His heart is already weak. He goes to sleep one night and simply doesn't wake up.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Then, Ashton let out a low, dark chuckle.

“If he dies suddenly, the Sinclair elders will demand an investigation. They’ll tear the estate apart looking for someone to blame.”

“Let them,” Candice laughed softly.

“Who do you think they'll blame, Ash? The loyal, grieving younger brother? Or the disgraced, bitter new bride who was forced into his bed against her will?”

The sheer cruelty of the plan hit me like a physical blow.

“That's why you pushed so hard for her to take your place,” Ashton realized, awe in his voice.

“You didn't just want to avoid marrying him. You needed a scapegoat.”

“Exactly,” Candice purred.

“When Brandon dies, Lorraine takes the fall. She goes to prison for murder. You inherit the Sinclair empire, and I become the Matriarch. It’s the perfect arrangement.”

In the shadows of the hallway, my blood ran to absolute ice.

They weren't just throwing me to the wolves. They were actively tying the meat around my neck.

Four years ago, Candice had framed me for stealing company secrets, resulting in my exile.

Now, she was planning to frame me for murder.

I didn't gasp.

I didn't cry.

My hands didn't even shake.

Coldly, methodically, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone.

I opened the voice memo app, hit the red record button, and held it near the crack of the door.

I let it run for another minute, capturing Ashton and Candice discussing the exact logistics of bribing one of Brandon’s private nurses.

Once I had enough, I stopped the recording.

I saved the file to a secure cloud server, and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

I now held the key to their absolute destruction.

It was time to go. I took a step back, turning toward the stairs.

Creaaak.

The old wooden floorboard beneath the Persian runner groaned loudly under my heel.

The voices in the study stopped instantly.

“Did you hear that?” Ashton whispered sharply.

“Hide,” Candice ordered.

The study door swung open.

I didn't run.

I stood perfectly still at the top of the stairs, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, my expression an impenetrable mask of calm.

Candice stepped out into the hall.

When she saw it was me, the brief flash of panic in her eyes vanished, instantly replaced by a smug, triumphant smirk.

She glanced back into the study to ensure Ashton was out of sight, then pulled the door shut behind her, stepping into my personal space.

She didn't bother putting on her sweet, sickly act. There was no one around to perform for.

“Leaving so soon, Sister?” Candice whispered.

Her eyes raked over my cheap clothes with utter disgust.

“I was just packing.”

“Good,” she sneered, stepping closer until I could smell her cloying, expensive perfume.

“Because you don't belong here. You never did.”

She tilted her head, her eyes filled with dark amusement.

“I have your parents. I have your fiancé. I have your life, Lorraine. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

I looked down at her.

She was shorter than me, petty, and rotten to her very core.

“Are you done?” I asked flatly.

Candice’s smirk widened into a malicious, teeth-baring grin. She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear.

“Good luck surviving your wedding night with that monster,” she whispered, her voice dripping with poison.

“Try not to die too quickly. It would ruin all my plans.”

I didn't flinch.

I didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I just looked at her, my eyes entirely dead, reflecting nothing but the abyss she was about to fall into.

“Goodbye, Candice,” I said smoothly.

I turned on my heel and walked down the grand staircase.

The car ride was suffocatingly quiet.

When the vehicle finally stopped, I looked out the window.

The Sinclair manor sat in the dead of night, wrapped in heavy fog. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a fortress.

Rows of men in black suits stood by the iron gates.

No one welcomed me. No one offered a warm greeting.

An elderly butler with a cold face led me straight up the stairs.

“The young master's temper has been... unstable,” the butler warned, not looking back. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not turn on the main lights.”

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.

He opened it, gestured for me to step inside, and didn't follow.

I stepped into the pitch-black room.

Click.

The heavy door shut behind me, and the lock turned from the outside.

I stood in the dark, my duffel bag gripped tightly in my hand.

The air in the room was freezing. It smelled faintly of expensive cedar and something sharp, like sterilized metal.

I braced myself.

I expected the heavy breathing of a dying man. I expected the squeak of a wheelchair, or the angry shout of a disfigured invalid.

Instead, I heard steady, even footsteps.

They were coming from the shadows near the balcony.

The moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting across the dark room.

A figure stepped into the pale light.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was towering, easily over six feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light.

He wasn't in a wheelchair.

He wasn't covered in burns.

His face was breathtakingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

He stood firmly on his own two feet.

It was Brandon Sinclair.

Before I could even process the lie, he moved.

He was impossibly fast.

In a split second, I was slammed hard against the wall.

The duffel bag dropped from my hand.

A large, calloused hand gripped my jaw, pinning me in place. His fingers pressed dangerously close to my throat.

“Who sent you?”

His voice was a low, murderous rumble. It vibrated against my skin.

“Did Ashton finally run out of patience? Or did the elders decide to speed up my funeral?”

He leaned in closer. The sheer force of his presence was suffocating.

“Speak. Before I snap your neck.”

He was testing me.

He thought I was just another spy, another assassin sent by his greedy relatives to finish the job.

Anyone else would have cried.

Anyone else would have begged for their life, trembling under the weight of his killing intent.

But I had already died four years ago in those mountains. I had nothing left to fear.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't scream.

I looked the terrifying billionaire dead in the eye.

“If I were here to kill you, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, my voice completely steady, “I wouldn't have come through the front door.”

His eyes narrowed. The grip on my jaw tightened slightly.

I didn't break eye contact. Slowly, deliberately, I reached into my coat pocket.

Brandon’s muscles tensed, ready to strike if I pulled a weapon.

Instead, I pulled out my phone.

I unlocked the screen, opened the voice memo I had saved an hour ago, and hit play.

The quiet room was suddenly filled with Ashton’s bitter voice.

“I care about Brandon! The man is a half-dead cripple...”

Then, Candice’s smooth, venomous tone followed.

“A slight dosage increase in his pain management IV... He goes to sleep one night and simply doesn't wake up.”

I watched Brandon’s face as the recording played.

He didn't look surprised.

But the cold, murderous intent in his eyes slowly shifted into something else.

When the recording ended, the room fell into a heavy silence.

Brandon stared at me for a long moment.

Then, he let out a low, dark chuckle.

He released my jaw and took a step back, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“So,” Brandon said, his tone carrying a hint of dark amusement. “The sacrificial lamb has teeth.”

I rubbed my jaw, keeping my posture perfectly straight.

“The car accident,” I said calmly. “The paralysis. The six months to live. It was all a lie.”

“A necessary one,” he replied, walking over to a leather armchair and sitting down.

“The Sinclair empire is rotting from the inside. Traitors in the board, greedy relatives waiting for me to fall. I needed to flush them out.”

He looked at me, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“And they sent you. The disgraced Mercer daughter. The perfect scapegoat.”

“They think I'm stupid,” I said. “They think I'll quietly take the fall when they finally make their move against you.”

“And what do you want?” Brandon asked.

I walked toward him, stopping just a few feet away.

“A partnership.”

I laid it out plainly.

“I will play the role of the terrified, obedient wife. I will keep Ashton and Candice completely blind to the truth. I will be your eyes and ears inside this house.”

Brandon tilted his head, listening.

“In return,” I continued, my voice dropping to a cold, hard pitch. “You will protect me. And you will give me the power and resources I need to completely destroy the Mercer family.”

I didn't want a quiet escape.

I didn't want to just walk away and let karma do the work.

I wanted to be the karma.

Brandon looked at me.

For the first time, a genuine smile touched his lips. It was a dangerous, predatory smile.

He was fascinated.

He had expected a weeping, useless girl begging for mercy. Instead, he got a woman just as ruthless as he was.

Brandon stood up.

He reached out his hand.

“Deal, Mrs. Sinclair.”