Married To The Arrogant Billionaire Heir

Grace’s POV.

The automatic doors of the hospital slid shut, swallowing Sarah, my adoptive mother, into the sterile hallway. I watched for a moment longer than necessary, a habit born of protectiveness. She had smiled and waved, but I saw the tremor in her hand.

I let out a long, shaky breath and climbed back into my car. The silence inside the vehicle was heavy, but it was quickly replaced by a flutter of nervous excitement in my chest.

Ryan.

My fingers brushed over the steering wheel. After two agonizing months abroad, he was finally back on home soil. The distance had been a dull ache in my chest, but today, that ache would be soothed. I had so much to tell him. In the eight weeks he’d been gone, my entire reality had shifted. I had found them—my biological family. I had a twin sister.

I pictured his face when I’d tell him. The shock, the warmth, the way he’d pull me in and promise we’d figure it all out together.

My phone buzzed against the center console, shattering the daydream.

I snatched it up, expecting Ryan’s name. Instead, the screen flashed: **Mr. Reed**.

My biological father.

My stomach gave a strange lurch. He rarely called. Communication with my biological family was usually handled through stiff text messages. I swiped to answer, forcing my voice to sound steady.

"Dad? Is everything okay? Is Isabella back?"

"Grace."

His voice wasn't the polished, commanding baritone I was used to. It was ragged and thin.

"Grace, you need to come to the estate. Now."

"What’s wrong?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turned white. "Is it the wedding? Did Isabella change her mind?"

"There was an accident," he choked out. The sound of a man weeping on the other end of the line made my blood run cold. "She… she’s in critical condition, Grace. The doctors, they… they don’t know if she’s going to wake up."

The world tilted on its axis. The hum of the engine, the passing cars, the heat of the sun through the windshield—it all vanished.

"Wake up?" I whispered. "I was texting her last night. She was sending me pictures of the dress. She was… she was happy."

"Just come," he begged. "Please."

The line went dead.

I didn't remember starting the car. I didn't remember the drive. The journey to the Reed estate was a kaleidoscope of blurred traffic lights and the terrifying sound of my own heart hammering against my ribs.

Isabella. My mirror image. The sister I had spent twenty-two years not knowing, and only four weeks loving. Fate couldn't be this cruel. It couldn't give me a sister just to snatch her away before I even saw her walk down the aisle.

When I pulled up to the Reed mansion, the towering iron gates felt like the entrance to a mausoleum.

I abandoned the car in the driveway and burst through the heavy oak front doors. The foyer was silent, the air conditioning chilled to a temperature that raised goosebumps on my arms.

"Where is she?" I cried out, the sound echoing off the marble floors.

My biological mother, Eleanor, was sitting on the velvet chaise in the living room. She looked small, her usually immaculate posture collapsed. Beside her, my biological father sat with his head in his hands.

Eleanor looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her mascara smeared in jagged lines down her cheeks. She didn't stand to hug me. She just stared, and for a second, I saw a flash of something that looked terrifyingly like calculation.

"You can’t see her," Eleanor whispered. "She’s in the ICU. Strict visitation. No one gets in."

"I’m her sister," I argued, my voice cracking. "I have to be there."

"You can’t help her, Grace!" My father snapped, standing up abruptly. He looked aged, his face gray. "Her body is broken. We can only wait."

He began to pace, his shoes clicking sharply on the floor. "God... Why now? Of all the times... why before her wedding this weekend?"

I stared at him, repulsed. "Your daughter is fighting for her life, and you’re worried about the wedding?"

"You don’t understand," he hissed, stopping in front of me. "Sebastian. The groom. He’s already more than prepared for it."

"So tell him!" I threw my hands up. "He loves her. He’ll want to be by her side."

"He doesn't love her, Grace. He doesn't even know her." My father grabbed my shoulders, his grip bruising.

"This is a merger. A contract. Sebastian is investing millions into Reed Enterprises, but only on the condition that the marriage is finalized. If there is no wedding on Saturday, he pulls the funding. We lose the company. We lose the house. We lose everything."

I pulled away from him, stumbling back. "You’re worried about money? Now?"

"We are talking about ruin!" Eleanor stood up, her voice shrill. "Complete destitution."

She walked toward me, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch my face. It was the first time she had ever touched me with anything resembling need.

"Grace," she breathed, her eyes scanning my features. "You look just like her. The hair, the eyes... even your voice."

A cold dread pooled in my stomach. "What are you saying?"

"No one has seen Isabella in person for months," Eleanor said, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Sebastian hasn't seen her since the engagement party months back. He wouldn't know."

I shook my head, backing away toward the door. "No. No, absolutely not."

"You have to," my father commanded. "You will put on the dress. You will walk down that aisle. That’s how long she is expected to be in a coma."

"I am not marrying a stranger!" I screamed. "I have a life! I’m engaged! Ryan is waiting for me right now!"

"Grace, please!" Eleanor fell to her knees, clutching the hem of my jeans. "Do this for your sister. If she wakes up... do you want her to wake up to nothing? No home, no legacy, her family destroyed?"

The manipulation twisted in my gut like a knife. I looked at them—two people who had given me up at birth, now begging me to save the empire they kept for themselves.

"I can’t," I choked out. "I won't."

I turned and ran.

I didn't stop running until I was back in the safety of my car. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the ignition. I needed air. I needed sanity.

I needed Ryan.

I drove blindly toward the cafe where we had agreed to meet. I needed to hold him. I needed him to tell me that my biological parents were crazy, that I was right to run, that we were safe.

I parked erratically and rushed into the restaurant. The scent of roasted garlic and wine hit me, grounding me slightly.

I scanned the room.

There he was.

Ryan sat at a corner table, looking at his phone. He looked handsome, familiar—a lighthouse in the storm.

"Ryan," I breathed, rushing toward him.

He looked up, his face breaking into that easy, charming smile I adored. He stood, opening his arms. "Grace. Babe, you look... are you okay? You’re pale."

"It’s... It’s a long story," I stammered, grabbing his hands. They felt warm. Real. "My family... everything is falling apart. I just needed to see you."

"I'm here," he soothed, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere. We can—"

**BANG.**

The restaurant entrance slammed open against the wall.

The chatter in the room died instantly. I turned, along with everyone else.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was striking, wearing a coat that cost more than my car, but her face was twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Her eyes scanned the room like a predator until they locked onto our table.

Onto Ryan.

She didn't walk; she marched. The click-clack of her heels sounded like gunshots on the hardwood floor.

Ryan’s hands went stiff in mine. He tried to pull away, his face draining of all color. "Oh, God."

"Ryan?" I asked, confusion warring with panic. "Who is that?"

The woman reached our table before he could answer. She didn't look at me. She swung her designer purse, slamming it onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware.

"You spineless coward," she spat, her voice trembling with a fury that made my skin crawl.

"Chloe, please," Ryan stammered, holding his hands up. "Not here."

"Not here?" she laughed, a shrill, hysterical sound. She turned to me then, her eyes burning with tears. "And who is this? Another one of your little projects?"

"I'm his fiancée," I said, my voice small, confused.

The woman’s expression crumbled from anger to pity, and then back to rage. She looked at Ryan, then back at me.

"Fiancée?" she scoffed. "That’s funny."

She pointed a manicured finger at Ryan’s chest.

"Because he’s my husband."