The Billionaire's Mute Bride

ANNA The door clicked shut behind me, and a moment later, my phone vibrated inside my coat pocket. I fished it out, expecting the worst. Sure enough, a message from Ron, one of the Cooper family drivers, lit up my screen. It was a simple text. One I'd received far too many times. Mr. Ron: Miss, emergency. Can't pick you up tonight. Right. Of course. I'm pretty sure emergency was just a code word for Emory wants to go clubbing. It wasn't the first, second, or even third time this had happened. Somehow, whenever I needed a driver, my sister—stepsister, as she so often liked to remind me—would suddenly come up with an excuse to claim the only driver permitted to take me anywhere. The Cooper estate had plenty of drivers to choose from. Emory alone had about three assigned to her. But apparently, even that wasn't enough. I hadn't genuinely expected Ron to show up. Still, a small, foolish part of me had hoped he would. And that was the problem with hope. No matter how many times you learned better, it always found a way to disappoint you. I was used to being an afterthought. I'd spent most of my life in that position, so you'd think I'd have developed some immunity to it by now. Apparently not. Sometimes, it still hurt. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and adjusted the cello case hanging from my shoulder. Thirty pounds of wood. Six hours of practice. One very exhausted shoulder. At this point, I was fairly certain my shoulder was preparing to file for divorce. I tipped my head back and stared at the sky. Rain poured from the heavens in relentless sheets, as though the weather had personally decided to make my evening miserable. Wonderful. Just absolutely wonderful. The Cooper estate was an hour away, and it was already 10:53 p.m. The gates closed at midnight, at least for me. I wasn't particularly interested in finding out what happened when I arrived late. My phone battery sat at a pathetic three percent. I'd forgotten to charge it during the day, and now I was paying for my negligence. The subway station was fifteen minutes away on foot. The last train wasn't scheduled to leave until midnight, so I technically had time. Walking home wasn't an option, though. Not with my cello. I couldn't afford to damage it, and getting it soaked would hardly do it any favors. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to stand around waiting for a miracle, either. On the bright side, I supposed I could get my steps in. I stepped out from beneath the shelter. The rain hit me immediately. Within seconds, my clothes clung to my skin, and the cold seeped through my coat. I shivered, tightened my grip on the cello case, and started walking. My shoes splashed through shallow puddles as I made my way down the nearly deserted road. I stared straight ahead, refusing to think about how far I still had to go. My day couldn't possibly get any worse. How wrong I was. A car sped past me, its tires slicing through a particularly deep puddle. The resulting wave of water struck me with the force of a brick wall. I stopped dead. For a moment, I simply stood there, blinking as water streamed down my face and dripped from my eyelashes. My coat was drenched. My hair was plastered to my forehead. My shoes were probably full of enough water to sustain a small aquatic ecosystem. And my cello case? I looked down at it in horror. Please, no. I had no idea how much water had gotten inside, but if my cello was damaged, I might actually cry. Not that anyone would hear me. I couldn't scream. I couldn't curse the driver who had just turned me into a walking puddle. I couldn't even shout the sort of things that would probably get me arrested if I could say them aloud. All I could do was stand there, silently contemplating the many ways my evening had gone wrong. Then I slowly turned toward the car responsible. It had come to a stop a short distance ahead of me. The vehicle looked expensive. Very expensive. I didn't know much about cars, but I knew enough to recognize that this one probably cost more than most people earned in several years. Fantastic. Not only was I soaked to the bone, but now I had to deal with whoever owned the thing. The driver's door opened, and a tall, bald man stepped out. He looked to be in his fifties and wore a neat driver's uniform. He carried an umbrella and hurried toward me with an apologetic expression. For one ridiculous second, I thought he might be Ron. He wasn't, of course. The resemblance ended at the uniform and the general air of a man who spent his days driving people around. He stopped a few feet away. "Are you all right, miss?" he asked gently. I nodded. It was a lie, obviously, but it seemed easier than explaining that I was one unfortunate moment away from losing my mind. As if my shivering, dripping appearance wasn't enough of an explanation. The passenger-side door opened. Another man stepped out. Judging by his clothes, he was the owner of the car. He was younger than the driver, perhaps in his early thirties, and tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to get a proper look at him. Six-four, maybe six-five. He was handsome. Annoyingly so. He had a strong, square jaw covered in a faint five-o'clock shadow, high cheekbones, and a small scar above his straight, dark eyebrows. His nose appeared to have been broken at least once, giving it a slight crookedness that somehow suited his face. His lips were full, though currently pressed into a thin line. His eyes were difficult to make out beneath the streetlights, but I could tell they were fixed on me. Assessing me. He wore a black tuxedo that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. For a moment, I forgot about the rain. Then I remembered that my clothes were sticking to my skin, my cello might be ruined, and this stranger was looking at me as though I were a problem he hadn't anticipated encountering tonight. My irritation returned in full force. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn't quite place him. Perhaps I'd seen him in a magazine. Or at one of my father's endless business functions, where wealthy people gathered to congratulate one another for being wealthy. I couldn't be certain. He opened an umbrella and held it above his head before approaching. "I'm so sorry," he said. I stared at him. Then at the car. Then back at him. I didn't bother answering. His gaze moved over my soaked clothes before settling on the cello case in my hand. Something shifted in his expression, and his jaw tightened. Perhaps he was beginning to understand the extent of the damage his driver had caused. "James," he called. The driver immediately came over, carrying another umbrella. I instinctively took a step back when he approached. The man noticed. Instead of coming any closer, he stopped and held the umbrella above my head, leaving enough space between us that I didn't feel trapped. I appreciated that. A little. "I'm Alex," the younger man said. I looked at him expectantly. And waited. Silence stretched between us. I had no intention of filling it. Eventually, he seemed to realize that I wasn't going to introduce myself. "My driver misjudged the puddle," he explained. I raised an eyebrow. Misjudged? Was that what we were calling it? The man had practically baptized me in the middle of the street. Alex glanced at the driver, who looked thoroughly embarrassed. "Please let me give you a ride," Alex offered. I shook my head firmly. Absolutely not. There was no universe in which I was willingly getting into a car with two complete strangers. I might have been cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable, but I wasn't stupid. "I understand your hesitation," he said, apparently interpreting my refusal correctly. "But there's no available Uber, and the subway station is twenty minutes away." I narrowed my eyes. How did he know that? He glanced at the road before continuing. "Besides, it's dangerous to wait out here alone in this weather." I hated that he had a point. The rain showed no signs of stopping, the streets were nearly deserted, and my phone was practically dead. Still, accepting a ride from a strange man wasn't exactly at the top of my list of sensible decisions. For all I knew, they could murder me and dump my body in a ditch. Tomorrow's headlines would read: GIRL FOUND DEAD AFTER FOOLISHLY ACCEPTING A RIDE FROM STRANGERS. My picture would probably be terrible, too. I wasn't even sure anyone in my family would notice I was missing before the news broke. The thought was unpleasant enough that I pushed it away. Alex seemed to study my expression. "I'm not a killer," he assured me. I stared at him. That's exactly what a killer would say. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though he was accustomed to being viewed with suspicion. "All right. How about this?" He gestured toward the car. "Take a picture of the license plate. Send it to a friend. If you haven't contacted them within thirty minutes, tell them to call the police." I hesitated. It was, admittedly, a reasonable suggestion. A surprisingly reasonable suggestion from a man who had just allowed his driver to soak me in the rain. Of course, there was one small problem. I had no one to send the picture to. I had no friends. And I was pretty sure my 'family', couldn't care less if I arrived or not. But I couldn't stand there all night. I glanced at the car again. Then at the rain. Then at Alex. Finally, I nodded. I took a picture of the license plate and pretended to send it to someone, tapping away at my screen with a seriousness I hoped looked convincing. There. Now I could pretend someone was waiting for my call. Alex watched me for a moment but didn't comment. "Thank you," he said, stepping aside to let me approach the car. I opened the rear door and climbed inside, carefully positioning my cello beside me. The interior was warm, and the sudden change in temperature made me shiver harder. I rubbed my hands together, trying to restore some feeling to my fingers. James settled behind the wheel. "Where to, miss?" he asked. I pulled out my phone, opened the notes app, and typed my address before turning the screen toward him. He read it and nodded. Alex settled into the passenger seat. And just like that, we were off. The drive was quiet. Thank heavens. I wasn't in the mood for awkward small talk, and neither man seemed particularly interested in forcing a conversation. I leaned back against the seat, keeping one hand on my cello case. My thoughts wandered to the estate, to Emory, and to the inevitable questions I would have to endure if she happened to see me arriving in an unfamiliar car. I could already imagine the expression on her face. She would probably find a way to make it sound like I'd deliberately inconvenienced everyone. The thought made me sigh. Outside, the rain blurred the streetlights into hazy streaks of gold. I watched the passing buildings, occasionally checking my phone to see whether it had finally given up on me. It hadn't. Yet. Ten minutes later, James slowed the car before a familiar set of iron gates. Home. Or at least, the place where I slept. The guard recognized the car and opened the gates without asking questions. James drove up the long driveway, stopping near the entrance. I unfastened my seat belt and reached for my cello. "Here you are, miss," James said. I nodded, then turned toward Alex. He was already looking at me. For a second, I considered finding a way to thank him properly. I could type something on my phone, but the words seemed unnecessarily formal for a situation that had started with his car practically drowning me. So I settled for a small nod. His expression remained unreadable. "Get inside before you catch a cold," he said. I climbed out, carefully balancing the cello case in my arms. The cold air hit me again, but I hurried toward the entrance before I could get any wetter. As I passed the front of the house, I spotted Emory's car parked in the driveway. Of course she was home. I pushed open the side door and slipped inside, hoping to reach my room before anyone noticed my condition. I didn't look back at the car. I didn't ask Alex for his surname. And I certainly didn't think I'd ever see him again. After all, he was just a stranger who had given me a ride home on a rainy night. Nothing more. I had no idea how wrong I was. Because the next time I saw Alexander Davenport, I would finally understand why his face had seemed so familiar. And by then, getting out of his car would be the least of my problems.