The Fake Blind Bride's Sweet Revenge

The scent of heavy velvet drapes and expensive leather was utterly drowned out by the pungent stench of YSL Black Opium perfume. Through the darkened living room of Peninsula Hotel's fifteenth-floor suite, ragged gasps and wet, frantic kisses sliced through the silence like broken glass.

Gisela Kerr stood motionless in the shadow of the foyer, her slender fingers curled tightly around the grip of her white ceramic cane.

Twelve hours remained before the wedding of the century was set to commence at Trinity Cathedral. And Branson Mccullough, the man who had played the role of her devoted, saintly fiancé for three relentless years, was currently pinning another woman into the cushions of the sofa, his trousers unbuckled, his hands tearing at lace.

The woman was wearing the custom Vera Wang veil Gisela had spent six months having embroidered by hand.

"Branson... ah... slower," Cristine Avery panted, her blonde hair spilling over the cushions as she arched her back, digging her manicured nails into his shoulders. "What if that little blind cripple wakes up? She's right in the master bedroom."

"Let her sleep," Branson said without lifting his head from Cristine's throat, his voice flat with disgust. "She's a blind orphan who can't take three steps without that pathetic stick. Besides, she took the chamomile tea I spiked with sedatives. She won't wake until the makeup crew bangs down the door."

Cristine let out a cruel, breathless giggle, deliberately kicking the hem of the white silk gown beneath her, the fragile fabric tearing under her Louboutin heels. "You're really marrying her tomorrow? You're making me watch you swear vows to that empty-eyed doll?"

"It's a transaction, darling. You know I only love you," Branson murmured, kissing her bruised collarbone with sickening reverence. "Three years I've played the faithful martyr. I even paid the orderly fifty grand to set that damn nursing home fire, then risked second-degree burns dragging her comatose grandfather out alive, all to make her look at me like I'm her personal messiah."

He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with unvarnished malice in the dim city light filtering through the blinds.

"She is one of the only documented Rh-null blood types on the Eastern Seaboard. Her HLA and tissue compatibility made her an unusually close match for your cardiac profile. Tomorrow at noon, the second the registry papers are stamped by the Cook County clerk, I become her legal healthcare proxy. In three months, she'll suffer an unfortunate 'domestic fall.' And her heart will be beating inside your chest."

In the pitch-black shadows of the foyer, Gisela didn't flinch.

Her vision had returned three days ago.

Dr. Chuck Lamb's experimental optic neuro-regeneration therapy had worked a miracle inside the sterile walls of the Lamb Neurological Institute. She had kept it a secret, dreaming of looking into Branson's eyes at the altar and whispering that she could finally see the man who had supposedly saved her life.

Instead, the universe had shown her the butcher behind the savior's mask.

They didn't just want her family's remaining offshore aviation patents. They wanted her flesh. Her organs. Her living, beating heart.

A suffocating scream rose in Gisela's throat, clawing at her vocal cords. She clamped her teeth down viciously on the web of her left thumb. The metallic tang of fresh blood bloomed across her tongue, grounding her in cold, razor-sharp reality.

If I confront them now, Branson's armed detail will lock down this floor before I can make it to the elevators. I will end up in a private sanitarium, strapped to an ICU bed, prepped for forced harvesting.

She needed power. Absolute, crushing, untouchable power.

Swallowing the blood in her mouth, Gisela deliberately tapped the tip of her cane against the parquet floor.

Click. Clack.

The sound was like a gunshot in the decadent stillness.

"Fuck!" Branson cursed, violently shoving Cristine aside as he scrambled to pull up his trousers and tuck in his wrinkled tuxedo shirt. Cristine frantically yanked a silk throw over her bare thighs, shrinking back into the cushions.

Gisela walked out into the pale moonlight, her eyes deliberately unfocused, staring into the middle distance with the vacant, wide-eyed innocence of a helpless lamb.

"Branson...?" Her voice trembled with sleepy confusion, perfectly pitched. "Is someone there? I... I heard a glass break. My throat hurts, and I couldn't find the water carafe."

Branson exhaled a ragged breath, the murderous tension in his posture instantly melting into nauseating condescension. He stepped forward, sweeping a glass of water off the sideboard and placing it gently into her trembling hands.

"It's just me, sweetheart," he cooed, his fingers lightly stroking her cheek-a touch that made Gisela want to vomit acid. "Cristine came up to drop off the final seating chart. You shouldn't be wandering in the dark. Go back to bed. Tomorrow is the biggest day of our lives."

"Okay..." Gisela murmured softly, taking a tiny sip before letting him guide her back to the threshold of the bedroom. "Don't work too late. I love you."

"I love you more than life, Gisela," Branson whispered.

The door clicked shut.

In the darkness of the bedroom, Gisela wiped her cheek with the back of her hand until the skin burned raw. She spat the sip of water into the marble sink, then poured the rest of the glass after it. She had barely touched the tea Branson had given her; the sedative had made her mouth numb, not her mind.

Eight hours later, at eight in the morning, the bridal suite buzzed with manic energy. The lead celebrity makeup artist was fastening diamonds into Gisela's dark curls, chattering excitedly.

"Did you hear the whispers downstairs, Miss Kerr? The entire hotel security detail was overhauled at dawn. Zeus Global Holdings' chairman-Coleman Cox himself-checked into the top-floor presidential penthouse. They say he never leaves his Manhattan fortress, but he flew in on his private Gulfstream last night."

The makeup artist sighed in awe. "Cold as dry ice, decorated war hero, and ruthlessly untouchable. If only he wasn't Cristine Avery's adoptive guardian... God, that family has all the luck."

Sitting before the gilded vanity mirror, Gisela's vacant expression dissolved into a look of predatory clarity.

Coleman Cox.

The undisputed titan of American private equity. A man who held the keys to Washington's defense contracts and Wall Street's deepest trusts. And, crucially, the adoptive patriarch whom Cristine Avery bent over backward to please.

Gisela stood up, brushing aside the makeup artist's outstretched hands.

"Miss Kerr? Where are you going? The photographer is on his way!"

"I need some air," Gisela replied, her voice steady and clear.

She reached into her silk handbag, pulled out a small, worn velvet box containing the single object her late father had commanded her to guard with her life, and walked out the door.