The next morning, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom waited outside the Hayes villa, its polished surface gleaming like obsidian under the early sun.

Alfred Jennings, the butler, opened the rear door with impeccable precision, though his eyes carried a flicker of assessment. Cynthia and Holly lingered at the doorway, their smiles brittle and false. Alexandra passed them without a glance, her gaze fixed forward, and slid into the car.

As the estate faded in the rearview mirror, she felt nothing—no regret, no pull. The silence inside the vehicle pressed in, broken only by the engine's low hum.

Alfred extended a black card over the seat. "Miss Hayes, this is from Mr. Carlisle Sr. Unlimited credit."

Alexandra studied the card, a blatant offer of dependence, and her resolve hardened. She would not be bought or bound by Carlisle money. "My name is Alexandra," she said, her voice cool.

Alfred hesitated for a fraction of a second, then set the card on the empty seat beside her. "Yes, Miss Alexandra."

The car swept through heavily guarded gates into Carlisle Manor. Manicured lawns, classical fountains, and marble statues lined the drive, yet the grandeur felt like a gilded cage. Alexandra watched the scenery slide past, her mind already mapping the terrain of her revenge. This place was no paradise; it was her first foothold.

Alfred led her along a corridor hung with priceless oil paintings and paused before a set of massive double doors. "Miss Alexandra, this is Master Eldridge's room." Sadness edged his tone. He pushed the doors open, bowed, and withdrew, leaving her alone.

The room stretched wide and stark, decorated in cool shades of black, white, and gray. Medical monitors surrounded a large bed where a man lay perfectly still.

Alexandra approached. This was Eldridge Carlisle, her husband in name only. Even in his coma, his sharp, defined features held a natural aura of authority. She looked down at his lifeless face, and a cold smile touched her lips. A living shell. Perfect. It would save her a lot of trouble.

Yet, as she circled the bed, the monotonous beep of the life-support machines grated on her nerves. She stopped by his side, the weight of this forced arrangement settling over her. A sudden, inexplicable anger flared. Every humiliation she had suffered recently traced back to this man and his powerful family.

A rebellious smirk played on her lips. She glanced at the medical chart at the foot of the bed. No autonomic nerve response.

"No response, huh?" she murmured to herself.

In the next second, she did something that would have given any nurse a heart attack. She lifted her foot and kicked Eldridge Carlisle squarely in the side.

His large frame, slick against the silk sheets, rolled off the bed without resistance and landed with a soft thud on the plush carpet. The monitors shrieked with alarms for a moment, then fell silent, returning to their steady rhythm as if nothing had happened.

Alexandra looked down at the man on the floor, her hands shoved into her pockets. Her voice was lazy, provocative. "My bed. I don't like to share. Not even with a dead man."

In that moment, unseen by anyone, Eldridge's long, dark lashes seemed to tremble for a fraction of a second.

Ignoring the brief alarm, Alexandra's demeanor shifted. The flare of anger cooled, instantly replaced by the sharp, clinical detachment of a healer. She crouched beside him on the carpet, her slender fingers pressing firmly against the pulse point on his wrist, then moving to check the muscle tone in his neck.

Beneath her touch, his pulse was faint and erratic—a chaotic rhythm the machines barely captured. She closed her eyes, sensing the severe blockages in his system. It was critical, but not irreversible. He wasn't a lost cause; he just needed the right kind of intervention.

Opening her eyes, she studied his handsome, pale face, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. To think, the most elite, untouchable scion of the Carlisle family has been reduced to this—a helpless doll tossed onto the floor. The irony was almost tragic.

She stood up, leaving him on the rug, and walked over to the enormous walk-in closet to survey her new territory. She pulled her own things from her suitcase—a few simple T-shirts and jeans that looked utterly out of place among the racks of designer gowns. She didn't care about the luxury. She only cared about establishing her dominance here.

From her small carry-on bag, she retrieved an old, worn leather pouch. She unrolled it on a side table, revealing rows of silver needles, long and short, glinting coldly in the light.

Alexandra hauled Eldridge back onto the bed. Her movements weren't gentle, but they were efficient.

She studied the medical monitors beside him. The complex data and waveforms on the screen were as easy for her to read as a children's book.

Vital signs are stable, but cortical activity is almost zero... a typical deep coma, she concluded with professional certainty.

She took a long, thin needle from her pouch and carefully sterilized it with an alcohol swab. The motion was practiced, almost elegant.

She had no desire to save him. But she needed him alive. A living, but incapacitated, vegetable of a husband was her best shield, her best tool for wreaking havoc in the Carlisle household.

Taking a deep breath, she located an acupuncture point on the crown of his head. She held her breath, her focus absolute, preparing to insert the first needle.

Just as the tip was about to break the skin, the door was thrown open with a violent bang.

Her hand jerked. The needle slipped, leaving a tiny, bright red scratch on Eldridge's scalp. She frowned, turning her head in annoyance.

A middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit, her face a mask of aristocratic fury, stormed into the room. Trailing behind her was a younger woman in a white dress, who looked gentle and lovely.

Alexandra recognized them immediately. The leader was Eldridge's mother, the matriarch of the Carlisle family, Mrs. Carlisle. The woman behind her was Clarissa Thornton, the socialite doctor often linked to Eldridge in the press.

Mrs. Carlisle's eyes went straight to the gleaming needle in Alexandra's hand and the speck of blood on her son's head. Her face turned to stone.

"What are you doing!" she shrieked, rushing forward.

She slapped Alexandra's hand away. The silver needle fell silently onto the thick carpet.

Alexandra stumbled back a step, her eyes turning cold.

Clarissa immediately moved to support Mrs. Carlisle, her voice a shocked, worried whisper. "Oh my god, Auntie, is she... is she trying to hurt Eldridge with a needle? That's horrifying!"

"Hurt him?" Mrs. Carlisle's voice trembled with rage. She pointed a shaking finger at Alexandra as if she were a common criminal. "You, you wild seed from god-knows-where, how dare you touch my son!"

It was clear Mrs. Carlisle detested this marriage. However, due to the authority of Mr. Carlisle's arrangements, she was unable to stop the marriage.Her eyes raked over Alexandra's simple clothes, her disdain and class superiority on full display.

Alexandra said nothing. She bent down, picked up the silver needle, and began to wipe it meticulously with a silk handkerchief, ignoring them completely.

Her silence was gasoline on the fire. "Are you deaf? I'm speaking to you! Do you think climbing into my son's bed makes you the lady of this house? In your dreams!"

Clarissa interjected with a tone of feigned helpfulness. "Miss Alexandra, perhaps you don't understand. Eldridge's condition is extremely fragile. He can't be moved carelessly, let alone be subjected to this... this kind of unscientific treatment."

Her words were a thinly veiled insinuation that Alexandra was ignorant, crude, and practicing some kind of witchcraft.

Alexandra finally looked up. Her ice-blue eyes met Clarissa's, and a mocking smile touched her lips. "Oh? Then please tell me, 'Doctor,' besides letting him lie here and wait to die, what scientifically validated method do you have to wake him up?"

Clarissa's face stiffened. She hadn't expected this country girl to be so sharp-tongued.

Seeing her favored Clarissa being challenged, Mrs. Carlisle grew even more furious. "Insolence! Who do you think you are to question Clarissa? She's one of the best neurologists in the country!"

One of the best? Alexandra scoffed internally. Never heard of her.

Mrs. Carlisle's tone softened as she turned to Clarissa. "Clarissa, quickly, check on Eldridge. See if this madwoman hurt him."

Clarissa rushed to the bedside and made a show of examining Eldridge. Then, with a grave expression, she turned to Mrs. Carlisle. "Auntie, his vitals are a little unstable. He may have been agitated."

That was the final straw. Mrs. Carlisle's fury erupted.

"Guards!" she screamed toward the door.

Several men in black suits appeared instantly. Mrs. Carlisle pointed a trembling finger at Alexandra and gave a vicious command.

"Strip this woman of her filthy clothes and throw her out!"