The Billionaire's Medicine: His Silent Obsession

The Billionaire's Medicine: His Silent Obsession

Sutton Horsley

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My stepmother sold me like a piece of inventory to a man known for breaking people just to plug the financial crater my father left behind. I was delivered to the Morton estate in the middle of a freezing storm, stripped of my phone, and told that if I didn't make myself useful, my senile grandfather would be evicted from his care facility by noon. The master of the house, Adonis Morton IV, was a monster living in a silent mausoleum, driven to the brink of madness by a sensory condition that turned every sound into a physical assault. When I was forced into his suite to serve him, he didn't see a human being; he saw a source of agony. In a fit of animalistic rage, he pinned me to the wall and nearly strangled me to death just for the sound of a shattering teacup. I only survived by using my grandfather's secret herbal blends and pressure-point therapy to force his overactive nervous system into a drugged sleep. But saving him was my greatest mistake. Instead of letting me go, Adonis moved me into a guest suite connected to his own bedroom by a hidden door. He didn't just want me as a servant; he needed me as a human white-noise machine to drown out the demons in his head. The nightmare deepened when he took the promissory note that defined my freedom and tore it into confetti. By destroying the debt, he destroyed my exit strategy. He replaced my maid's uniform with a silver silk dress that clung to my skin but did nothing to hide the dark, ugly bruises his fingers had left on my neck. He branded me as his "primary care associate," a title that was nothing more than a gilded cage. I felt a sickening sense of injustice as he forced me to sign a contract that banned me from contacting other men and required me to sleep wherever he slept. He looked at me with a possessive heat, calling me his "medication" rather than a woman. My family had sold my body, but Adonis Morton was intent on owning my very presence, using my grandfather's medical bills as a leash to keep me within twenty feet of him at all times. Standing in a neglected greenhouse with mud staining my expensive silk, I realized I was no longer a victim waiting for rescue. If I was going to be his medication, I would learn how to be his cure-or his undoing. I began clearing the weeds with a cold, calculated frenzy, determined to turn this prison into my laboratory. He thinks he has trapped a helpless girl, but I am going to pry open the cracks in his stone walls until his entire world comes crashing down.

Chapter 1 1

"Is there really no other way?" Bella Miller asked. Her voice was barely a whisper, swallowed instantly by the drumming of rain against the reinforced glass of the limousine. She gripped the strap of her canvas backpack until her knuckles turned the color of bone.

Charla Miller didn't look up from her compact mirror. She was applying a fresh coat of crimson lipstick, her mouth open in a grotesque 'O' shape. The interior of the car smelled of expensive leather and Charla's cloying perfume, a scent that always made Bella's stomach churn.

"Don't be dramatic, Bella," Charla said, snapping the compact shut. The sharp click sounded like a pistol hammer cocking in the quiet cabin. "Your father left a mess. A crater, really. You are the only asset remaining with enough liquidity to plug the hole."

Asset. Not daughter. Not stepdaughter. Just inventory.

Bella looked out the window. The world outside was a blur of charcoal and black. They were winding up a road that felt less like a driveway and more like a path to the gallows. The trees bent under the wind, clawing at the passing car.

"He has a reputation," Bella said. The words tasted like bile. "They say he breaks things. People."

Charla turned then. Her eyes were cold, assessing. She looked at Bella the way a butcher looks at a side of beef, checking for marbling.

"Then don't be breakable," Charla said. "If you get returned, the Miller name is dust. We lose the house. We lose the accounts. I end up on the street, and your senile grandfather ends up in a state facility."

The car lurched to a halt. Bella's body jerked forward, the seatbelt cutting into her neck. Through the rain-slicked windshield, a massive iron gate loomed. It was topped with gargoyles that seemed to be screaming silently into the storm.

The driver's door opened. A moment later, the rear door on Bella's side was yanked open. The wind howled into the warm car, carrying freezing needles of rain.

"Out," Charla commanded. She didn't look at Bella. She was already checking her phone.

Bella stepped out. Her velvet heels, the ones Charla had forced her to wear, sank immediately into the mud. Cold water seeped through the fabric, chilling her toes. The driver hauled her suitcase from the trunk and dropped it onto the wet gravel with a heavy thud.

"Good luck," Charla said. Her window was already rolling up. "Make yourself useful."

The taillights of the limousine flared red, two demon eyes in the darkness, before the car swung around and vanished down the winding road. Bella stood alone. The rain soaked through her thin dress in seconds, plastering the fabric to her skin. She shivered, her teeth beginning to chatter.

The intercom on the stone pillar crackled.

"Identity," a mechanical voice demanded.

"Bella," she said. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Bella Miller."

The iron gates groaned. The sound of metal grinding on metal echoed through the trees. Slowly, agonizingly, they parted.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the driveway. An older man in a pristine black tuxedo stood under a massive black umbrella. He didn't rush. He walked with a terrifying, measured calm.

This was Hansel Powell. Bella knew the name from the briefing papers Charla had shoved at her.

Hansel stopped three feet away. The umbrella covered only him. He looked Bella up and down, his gaze lingering on her soaked hair and mud-stained shoes. There was no pity in his eyes, only calculation.

"Follow," he said.

He turned and walked toward the house. He didn't offer to take her bag. Bella grabbed the handle of her suitcase and dragged it. The wheels caught on the uneven stones, rattling loudly. Clack-clack-clack.

Hansel stopped dead.

He spun around, his movement so sudden that Bella flinched. He raised a gloved finger to his lips.

"Silence," he hissed. The word was barely a breath, but it carried more weight than a scream. "In this house, Miss Miller, noise is not an annoyance. It is a death sentence."

Bella clamped a hand over her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She looked past him, up at the sprawling manor. It was completely dark. A mausoleum of stone and secrets.

"Do you understand?" Hansel whispered.

Bella nodded. She lifted the heavy suitcase, straining her muscles to keep it off the gravel, and followed him into the dark.

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Five years ago, my company went bankrupt, burying me under mountains of debt. It was the lowest point of my life, yet I still believed I had my family. I was wrong. The day bankruptcy was finalized, my parents and younger brother called a family meeting. I expected comfort, a plan. Instead, my mother coldly declared, "Ethan, we're done. We can't be associated with this failure." My father nodded along, and my brother Kevin smirked, announcing they were disowning me in the paper. They left me in the shell of my office, with nothing but debt and the echoing sound of their betrayal. For five years, I clawed my way back, sleeping in a storage unit, eating instant noodles, taking every coding job I could find. My second company, Phoenix Innovations, just closed a nine-figure deal. I wasn't just back on my feet; I was flying higher than ever. Then the phone rang. It was my mother, her voice dripping with fake emotion. She gushed about how proud they were, then immediately shifted, claiming they had fallen on hard times. She asked for five million dollars and a Senior Vice President position for my father. I almost laughed at their shameless audacity. "No," I said, the word simple and final. Her voice turned venomous, "After everything we've done for you? We are your parents! You have a duty to take care of us!" My duty? I reminded them of the newspaper notice disowning me. They sputtered, claiming it was just a formality. I countered with their forged medical reports and my father's convenient recovery. "I owe you nothing," I said. "You made your choice five years ago. Live with it. Don't ever call me again." I hung up, blocking their number. The peace I had fought for felt about to shatter.

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