The Mute Heiress's Fake Marriage Pact

I was finally brought back to the billionaire Vance estate after years in the grimy foster system, but the luxury Lincoln felt more like a funeral procession. My biological family didn't welcome me with open arms; they looked at me like a stain on a silk shirt. They thought I was a "defective" mute with cognitive delays, a spare part to be traded away. Within hours of my arrival, my father decided to sell me to Julian Thorne, a bitter, paralyzed heir, just to secure a corporate merger. My sister Tiffany treated me like trash, whispering for me to "go back to the gutter" before pouring red wine over my dress in front of Manhattan's elite. When a drunk cousin tried to lay hands on me at the engagement gala, my grandmother didn't protect me-she raised her silver-topped cane to strike my face for "embarrassing the family." They called me a sacrificial lamb, laughing as they signed the prenuptial agreement that stripped me of my freedom. They had no idea I was E-11, the underground hacker-artist the world was obsessed with, or that I had already breached their private servers. I found the hidden medical records-blood types A, A, and B-a biological impossibility that proved my "parents" were harboring a scandal that could ruin them. Why bring me back just to discard me again? And why was Julian Thorne, the man supposedly bound to a wheelchair, secretly running miles at dawn on his private estate? Standing in the middle of the ballroom, I didn't plead for mercy. I used a text-to-speech app to broadcast a cold, synthetic threat: "I have the records, Richard. Do you want me to explain genetics to the press, or should we leave quietly?" With the "paralyzed" billionaire as my unexpected accomplice, I walked out of the Vance house and into a much more dangerous game.

Chapters

Chapter 6

They moved to a private anteroom to sign the papers. The lawyers moved like sharks, sliding documents across the polished mahogany table.

Letter of Intent.

Prenuptial Agreement.

Elara picked up the pen. Her hand hovered over the paper. For a second, she hesitated. This was it. She was signing away her freedom to a man who might be a sociopath.

"Sign it," Richard hissed in her ear, gripping her shoulder painfully.

Elara looked across the table. Julian was watching her. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

She signed. Elara Vance. The signature was jagged, sharp.

"Excellent!" Richard clapped his hands. "We'll announce it immediately."

They returned to the ballroom. The MC took the microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, a special announcement. Mr. Julian Thorne and Miss Elara Vance are officially engaged."

The applause was polite, scattered.

Tiffany walked up to them, a glass of champagne in her hand. "Congratulations, sister," she said, her smile tight. "You'll make a lovely nurse. Just make sure you lock the medicine cabinet. I hear Julian likes his painkillers."

Elara looked at the floor.

"Tiffany," Julian said. His voice carried, cutting through the chatter.

Tiffany blinked. "Yes, Julian?"

"Your dress," Julian said, pointing a languid finger. "The zipper has split. We can all see your... Spanx."

Tiffany gasped. Her hands flew to her back. She spun around, frantically trying to feel the split.

"Oh my god! Mother!" She ran toward the bathroom, her face bright red.

There was no split.

Elara bit the inside of her cheek to stop a smile. Julian leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. To the room, it looked romantic.

"Don't get used to it," he whispered. "I just hate her voice."

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out. A text from his private investigator.

Subject: Elara Vance.

Background: Inconclusive. Official records are clean-too clean. But I found traces of three encrypted IP jumps originating from her foster home's location. Someone scrubbed her digital footprint, and they did a military-grade job. She's a ghost.

Julian frowned. In the modern world, having no footprint was harder than having a criminal record. It took effort.

"Who are you?" he muttered under his breath.

Richard grabbed Julian to parade him in front of a senator. Elara was left standing alone by the buffet.

The wolves circled immediately.

Daphne, Tiffany's best friend and a girl whose net worth was higher than the GDP of a small island, stepped in front of Elara. She was flanked by two other girls.

"So it's true," Daphne said, swirling her red wine. "The mute got the monster. Did your daddy pay him to take you?"

Elara reached for a cracker. Daphne slapped her hand away.

"I'm talking to you," Daphne snapped. "God, you're pathetic. Look at this dress. Did you sew it yourself?"

Daphne "stumbled." The glass of red wine tipped. The dark liquid splashed across the front of Elara's grey dress, soaking into the fabric, looking like a fresh wound.

"Oops," Daphne said, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were dancing with malice. "My bad. But honestly, it's an improvement. Adds some color."

The girls giggled. People nearby turned to watch, smirking.

Elara stood still. The wine was cold against her skin. She slowly reached into her bag and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed at the stain.

She looked up. Her eyes fixed on Daphne's necklace. A massive, glittering diamond pendant.

Elara's eyes narrowed. She noticed the way the light hit the stone-it was too white, lacking the subtle fire of a true diamond. But more importantly, she saw the setting. The prongs were uneven, the kind of mass-produced finish found in mall kiosks, not the Place Vendôme.

She took out her phone. She typed a message. She turned the screen to Daphne.

I saw you adjusting the clasp earlier. Real platinum is heavy; that chain moves like aluminum. And Cartier doesn't use glue.

Daphne's face went pale. She clutched the necklace. "You liar! This is Cartier!"

Elara typed again.

Check the hallmark. Or should I ask the collector behind you?

A woman standing nearby-a collector-leaned in, squinting. "Actually... the girl might have a point. The refraction is... odd."

Daphne turned purple.

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