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For four years, Isolde Navarro played the part of a broken, mindless doll, trapped in a severe trauma-induced haze after being brutally framed. The charade reached its climax the night she caught her perfect sister, Angele, and her fiancé, Julian, having sex in the estate's guest room. Instead of showing guilt, Angele violently shoved Isolde into a marble wall, laughing as blood poured down her face. "Get her out of my sight and clean her up," Angele sneered, disgusted by her own sister. Worse, Isolde overheard their ultimate plan through a hidden microphone: once the trust's protection clause expired tomorrow, they would declare her permanently incompetent and steal the massive fortune her mother had left her. Her own father was fully on board, eager to lock his "embarrassing" daughter in a padded cell and freeze every cent she owned. How could her own flesh and blood be so utterly ruthless? They thought she was just a drooling idiot, completely defenseless against their greed and cruelty. But they didn't know the lethal operative known as 'The Rose' had never been asleep; she was just waiting in the shadows. With a micro-camera recording their every dirty secret, Isolde calmly wiped the blood from her face and walked out the door. She had twenty-four hours to hijack a billionaire into marriage, trigger the trust's emergency clause, and burn her family's entire world to the ground.
Contents
Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Predator Chapter 1
Isolde Navarro walked barefoot down the second-floor corridor of the manor. The silk nightgown was two sizes too big, the neckline slipping below her collarbone-she couldn't be bothered to pull it up. The hem brushed against the polished hardwood floor with a soft rustle.
Two in the morning. The whole house was asleep. Except for the guest room at the end of the hall.
The sound reached her before consciousness did-a low moan, then the rhythmic creak of a bed frame. She stopped. Over the past four years, she had learned to let no sound leave a trace in her mind.
She walked over and placed her hand on the heavy oak door. It was already ajar, leaving a narrow gap.
The hallway light fell on a woman's bare back. Her fingers dug deep into the plaster of the wall. A man pressed against her, his movements hurried and rough.
Their words were disgusting to hear: "Do you prefer me or that idiot?" "Don't mention her to me."
That was her sister, Angele.
That was her fiancé, Julian.
Isolde watched for two seconds. Her heart did not race. Her breathing did not change. She was not in shock, nor was she enduring-she was just watching, like a doctor looking at a body that did not belong to her.
Four years ago, Angele had drugged her water, making her ramble incoherently at a board meeting. The next day, every newspaper said the eldest daughter of the Navarro family had suffered a mental breakdown. The day after, Angele wept in front of the cameras, saying, "My sister needs professional care." On the fourth day, Isolde was sent to this manor.
Doctors, medication, caretakers. Angele arranged everything. No one suspected a thing, because Angele had always been the "gentle sister."
Isolde knew from the very beginning that resistance was useless. What Angele wanted was for her to make a scene-the more hysterical, the more everyone would believe she had truly lost her mind. So she did not make a scene. She quietly swallowed the pills, quietly endured the treatments, quietly turned herself into an empty shell. Every day she wandered the corridors, her gaze vacant, her speech slurred. The maids called her "that ghost," even to her face.
Four years. She buried her true self, inch by inch, beneath that hollow shell.
Now, watching the scene before her, she suddenly understood: the moment she had been waiting for was here.
Not because the affair itself mattered-she had long known what kind of man Julian was. She had been waiting for this: for Angele and Julian to be completely convinced that she was thoroughly broken, that she wouldn't even make a scene over catching them in the act, that she was nothing but a breathing corpse.
When they took her most lightly, she could finally make her move.
She shifted her weight and knocked her elbow against the console table by the door. The porcelain vase of white lilies wobbled for a second, then crashed to the floor.
The sound was like a gunshot.
In the room, the rhythmic creaking stopped. Julian scrambled back, fumbling for his belt with panic-stricken face.
Angele did not panic. She smoothed the folds of her silk robe unhurriedly, her movements deliberate. She turned around.
Seeing Isolde at the door, Angele smiled.
"Well, well, look who it is." She walked over, her steps slow, and pinched Isolde's chin, her nails digging deep into the soft skin. "Can't even keep your own man, can you, you stupid thing?"
For four years, Angele had spoken to her in this tone every day. Humiliating her, shoving her, slapping her, pinning her down in the bathtub. Every time, Isolde curled up, not fighting back, not begging-just trembling.
That was not her true self. That was her armor.
Her body faithfully executed four years of muscle memory-flinching. Angele saw her flinch, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed her face.
"Pathetic."
Angele shoved her hard.
Isolde's bare feet slid on the floor. She staggered backward, lost her balance, her arms flailing uselessly at empty air.
The back of her head struck the sharp marble corner of the wall with a sickening crack.
The pain was searing. Warm liquid trickled down her temple.
She slid to the floor, her vision darkening in waves. But in that searing pain, her mind became clearer than it had ever been.
Her pupils contracted to pinpricks.
The world suddenly had color, weight, and smell. The floor was cold, the blood was thick, the light from the hallway burst into sharp spots in her vision.
Angele saw the change. She saw something ignite in those eyes that had been vacant for four years-not anger, not grief, but something that made her stomach tighten. She could not name it, but she took half a step back.
In less than a second, Isolde assessed the situation: she was unarmed, bare-handed. Angele was half a head taller. Julian stood at the door, pale-faced, but still a man. Revealing herself now would be throwing away everything.
The fire in her eyes died.
She leaned against the wall, lowered her head, and stared at the small puddle of her own blood on the floor. Then she smiled-a slow, hollow, childish smile. She clapped her hands, softly, rhythmically.
"Red water," she mumbled, her voice thick and soft. "Pretty."
Julian's shoulders sagged in relief. He let out a long breath.
Angele curled her lip in disgust, wiping her fingers on her robe as if she had touched something filthy. "Call the maids," she said to Julian without looking back. "Get her out of my sight. Clean her up."
Two maids appeared, expressionless. They took Isolde by the arms, roughly and indifferently, and dragged her down the corridor.
Isolde let her body go limp, her head hanging low, like a broken puppet. She heard one maid mutter, "Miss Angele really went hard-she's bleeding." The other answered, "Don't worry about it. Just put her on the bed."
The bedroom door closed. The bolt clicked shut.
Isolde opened her eyes.
She stood up from the floor and walked to the ornate vanity. The woman in the mirror was a stranger-pale, gaunt, strands of blood clotting in her black hair. But the eyes were her own.
Cold. Clear. Merciless.
She took a handkerchief from the drawer and pressed it to the wound on the back of her head. The bleeding stopped quickly. She looked into the mirror and slowly wiped the blood from her face, her movements unhurried.
She had waited four years for this day. She had waited for Angele and Julian to completely forget that she was a person. Waited for them to do whatever they wanted right in front of her, without a shred of guilt.
The revenge had begun.
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