Accidentally Married to the Hidden Heir: The Identity He Hid

Rosalie's POV

The moment the nurse cut away the last layer of gauze, light came flooding in.

"Oh my God, Miss Fairfax!" She leaned close, her voice trembling. "Can you see? Follow my finger—left, right."

"Yes." I stared at her pale blue scrubs, my throat tightening. "I can see everything."

"This is a miracle, you know that?" Her eyes had gone red at the rims. "The attending physician said that with burns as severe as yours, the odds of recovery were less than thirty percent."

A miracle. My lips moved, but in the next second, something else drowned out every emotion—

I whipped around toward the small mirror on the bedside table, practically snatching it, and held it up to my face.

Golden hair in disarray, green eyes still reddened from just regaining their sight. I held my breath, my fingertips trembling as they traced my right cheek, my jaw, behind my ear—the places the fire had scorched.

Smooth. No scars. Not a single one.

I let out a breath, and my eyes went hot.

"What are you looking at so anxiously?" The nurse leaned in, teasing with a smile. "Relax, Miss Fairfax. That face of yours—every nurse on the ward is jealous. Burned like that, and not one scar left. Even the attending says it's uncanny."

"It's a scar-repair gel I… formulated myself," I said quietly, my ears growing warm. "I mixed the recipe before I lost my sight, and had the aide apply it every day."

"A doctor is a doctor, all right." The nurse clicked her tongue. "Any other girl who'd been through what you have would be crying her eyes out. You? You lie in bed developing your own skincare."

My face went redder, and I flipped the mirror back down. "…It's not logical to just lie around doing nothing."

But it wasn't about doing nothing. I was afraid—afraid that when Bryce lifted my bandages, he'd see a ruined face. He loved beautiful things so much.

He'd once said I was the most gorgeous girl he'd ever seen—like a peach, so ripe one squeeze would make it burst. I couldn't bear to disappoint him.

Three months of darkness. Three months I'd shut myself away, seeing no one, believing I was useless—a blind, possibly disfigured burden.

It was Bryce who came every day, who held my hand and said, In my eyes you'll always be the most beautiful. It was him who pulled me out of that black pit, inch by inch.

So now that I could see again, my first thought wasn't relief. It was him. I wanted to see his face when he learned I'd healed. I wanted to watch him breathe out in relief and say, Thank God, you're still you.

"What are you crying for, Miss Fairfax?" The nurse handed me a tissue with a grin, teasing on purpose. "This face isn't ruined at all—you'll still turn heads out there. Question is whether a certain Mr. Aldridge can handle it. He comes every single day. The whole floor of us blushes for him."

"…Stop it." My cheeks flamed instantly, and I shoved the mirror under the blanket. "It's nothing like you're saying."

I buried my face in the tissue, the tips of my ears burning. Three months. I thought I'd long since cried myself dry, gone numb. And yet at the mere mention of Bryce, I could still blush like a silly girl fresh in love.

"Shall I notify your family?" the nurse asked. "Or Mr. Aldridge?"

"Not yet." I cut her off. "I want to surprise him."

"…How romantic," she said, smiling.

Family. I lowered my eyes. That word had always been missing a corner for me. My mother was frail, in long-term care. As for the father who'd never once looked me in the eye—I'd grown used to it from childhood.

I'd long stopped expecting anything from him. I only had Bryce.

Gemma came to pick me up in a screaming-red Porsche. Tall, nearly five-nine, with the lean, hard lines of a martial artist, she leaned against the car door, shoulders squared, ash-chestnut hair cropped to her jawline.

"Rose!" She rushed over, then stopped dead. "Wait—you can see me?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit!" she cried, clapping a hand over her mouth. "When did you get it back? I've been going to that hospital every day, and not one nurse breathed a word!"

"I told them not to." I pulled the door open. "I wanted to surprise Bryce."

The smile on Gemma's face froze for a second. She opened her mouth as if to say something, her gaze lingering on my face for two beats—that hesitant, words-caught-in-the-throat kind of pause.

"…Okay," she said, her voice dropping half a note. "He'll be over the moon."

Over the moon. The way she said it didn't sound like a compliment at all.

I wrinkled my nose and tilted my head. Gemma was off today. But my head was full of cooking for Bryce, so I didn't dwell on it.

The car pulled away. I drew in a deep breath—the smell of leather mixed with the cool tang of her motorcycle jacket and the metal of her watch. I sorted through it layer by layer in my mind, steadying myself.

"Do you remember," I said suddenly, "the firefighter who saved me from the fire?"

"What about him?"

"My eyes had already gone dark by then, but I remember his eyes. Deep—the kind you can't see the bottom of. He had a full-face mask on, only those eyes showing."

That was the last image I saw before I went blind. Through the smoke, a tall figure charged in, scooped me up without a word, and ran. Clean, precise movements, like someone who'd done it a thousand times. And then I couldn't see anything at all.

Gemma was quiet for a few seconds. "You want to find him?"

"Once I get through all this." I said. "I have to thank him in person. I want to make him something useful—the lab's heat-resistant flame-retardant gel just hit its third generation. Sprayed on the seams of protective gear, it can hold up against short bursts of high heat, buy a few dozen extra seconds to escape. More useful than a thank-you."

"That's so like you, Rose." Gemma tipped her head back and gulped down a mouthful of coffee. "Other people say thank you with flowers. You say it with chemicals."

"Chemicals you can count on." I touched the sample vial in my bag, then something occurred to me. "Oh—can we swing by a supermarket on the way?"

"Huh? Now?"

"Mm." I looked down at my hands, my voice going soft. "I haven't done a single thing for him these three months. His favorite is the lobster bisque I make, with fresh-shucked oysters. I want to cook him a meal."

Gemma's grip on the wheel tightened. "Rose, your hands—"

"They're fine." I ran my thumb over the faint old scars across my palm—all from prying oysters and cracking lobster shells in the past. Bryce said the store-bought stuff had no soul; he only liked what I shucked by hand.

My advisor used to scold me over it, said a pair of hands meant for precision lab work, always warring with shellfish, would ruin themselves sooner or later.

At the time, I thought it was worth it. For him, anything was worth it.

Gemma's voice suddenly went quiet. "Rose… can I ask you something? When we get there—if what you see, what you hear, isn't what you expect… call me first."

"What do you mean?" I turned to look at her.

"Nothing." She shook her head quickly, pushing the car a little faster, her throat working. "It's just… your eyes only just healed. Don't overdo it. Promise me."

Her knuckles had gone white. I wrinkled my nose—she really was strange today. But my head was full of how much sherry that bisque needed, so I didn't think any deeper.

I carried a bag of live lobster and oysters up. The doorman knew me. "Evening, Miss Fairfax. Big crowd tonight."

I slipped on the sunglasses—the ones I'd had Gemma buy on the way—pretending I still couldn't see.

"Is it?" I smiled, one hand braced against the wall. "My husband likes a lively house."

The doorman's expression stiffened for an instant. "…Right. Enjoy yourself."

The key slid into the lock and turned softly. Music, laughter, the crisp clink of champagne glasses came spilling out.

A party. Maybe it was for me? Did he know I was discharged today?

My heartbeat quickened. I pushed the door open, kept a hand on the wall, and followed the sound inward.

"Come on, Bryce," a voice said, teasing, "we all know who you really love. It's Chloe. Always has been."

My steps halted.

Chloe.

My cousin. The cousin who'd lived with our family for six years.

No. I must have heard wrong.