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The Neglected Wife Is A Hidden Genius
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The Neglected Wife Is A Hidden Genius Novel Cover

The Neglected Wife Is A Hidden Genius

I woke up in the ICU, my lungs still burning from the freezing river water. Just outside the cracked door, I heard my adoptive family talking. That’s when the horrifying realization hit me: my drowning wasn't an accident. My adoptive mother had deliberately pried my fingers off the slippery rocks and pushed me in. "When is she going to wake up? This Rust Belt trash always finds a way to ruin our important moments." "If she's mentally unstable, we should just send her to that facility in the Hamptons and have her sign the inheritance waiver." My father and brothers coldly plotted my removal, while my fiancé, Eric, laughed flirtatiously with my younger sister. He had his arm around her waist, completely unbothered by the fact that I was fighting for my life after he had just scammed me out of half a million dollars. For ten years, I had smiled, obeyed, and shrunk myself to fit into their gilded cage, desperate for a sliver of their love. I couldn't understand how a decade of absolute devotion was met with calculated murder and such casual, cruel betrayal. But the pathetic, desperate Iona died in that icy water. As the suppressed memories of my true identity—"Silas", a master art restorer possessing centuries of dangerous, hidden knowledge—flooded my mind, my tears stopped. I picked up the phone, secured a marriage of convenience with the most powerful man in New York, and began my counterattack.
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Chapter 8

Kevan stared at her, trying to find the angle. Everyone wanted something. "What game are you playing?"

Iona didn't blink. "No game. I just don't need your money."

Kevan stood up, his jaw tight. He caught a whiff of her scent-solvents and linseed oil. "What were you doing in there?"

"Painting," she said simply.

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and walked toward his bedroom. "Don't burn the apartment down."

The next morning, Iona checked her email. An encrypted reply from a top-tier Sotheby's address was waiting. Her code had worked. The senior appraiser was practically begging for a private viewing, offering to meet anywhere, anytime, under any conditions. Iona agreed to a meeting in three days at a private club, demanding an NDA.

She got dressed to visit the Hollis family. As she walked out of the elevator into the lobby, she saw Kevan and Arthur waiting by the town car.

Arthur's hand was raised, and the ring glinted in the morning sun. The feeling of dread hit Iona like a physical blow. The bad luck was stronger now. It was hungry.

She walked over to them. Kevan gave her a warning look.

Iona ignored him. She looked directly at Arthur. "Mr. Finch, I wasn't joking the other day. That ring is dangerous. Get rid of it. The historical precedent I mentioned is too strong to be a coincidence. Please, don't wear it anywhere involving heights."

Arthur paled, remembering the elevator incident. Kevan stepped between them, his voice like ice. "Iona. Stop."

"I'm trying to help," she said calmly.

"You're being hysterical," Kevan snapped. "Get in the car, Arthur. We're late."

Arthur hesitated, then got in. Iona watched them drive away. She had done her duty. She hailed a cab, her mind already shifting to her family.

In the town car, Kevan was furious. "A Rust Belt girl lecturing us on antiques. It's embarrassing."

Arthur twisted the ring on his finger. "Sir, the elevator... what if she's right?"

"Coincidence," Kevan said firmly. "There's no such thing as curses."

They arrived at Vance Group headquarters. The private elevator was waiting. They stepped inside, the doors sliding shut.

Arthur stared at the floor numbers, his heart pounding. He thought about her words. "Heights."

The elevator began to ascend.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. A high-pitched screech echoed through the shaft.

Arthur's nervousness vanished.

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