The Billionaire's Obsession: Reclaiming His Heiress

The icy seawater tore at Catherine Nunes' clothes like claws, mercilessly pulling her down. She trembled all over, but not just from the cold—the burning and primal fury in her chest made her heart race. Every hoarse breath was a small victory against the raging storm around her. The wind howled like a beast. She forced her numb legs to move forward, along the rugged coastline, searching for any sign of shelter. Survival was a series of tiny, cruel choices, and at this moment, the only choice was to find a place to shelter from the wind and rain.

She discovered it—a black crack in the rock face, half-concealed by a curtain of vines. A cave. She carefully slipped inside, her senses instantly tensing. The air was damp, filled with the scent of salt and wet earth, but at least the wind was kept out. Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she continued deeper inside, her hands feeling along the cold, rough wall.

She kicked something hard under her foot, not a stone. She staggered but steadied herself without falling. Looking down, she saw a man. He lay motionless on the cave floor, his expensive suit torn to shreds, casting a deep black glow in the dim light. It was blood. A lot of blood.

In an instant, fear gripped her lungs. But immediately, the fear faded, replaced by a calm and professional focus. The surgeon within her took over the body. She knelt beside him, her fingers immediately reaching for his neck, searching for a pulse. She found it—beneath her cold fingertips, a faint, thread-like pulse. Weak, but still there.

Her gaze quickly swept over his body, assessing him swiftly and precisely. There was a deep wound on his forehead, but the real danger was on his abdomen—a patch of dark blood was spreading. She guessed it was a penetrating wound, and the blood was rapidly draining.

The bleeding had to stop immediately. She moved swiftly, tearing a piece of cloth from the hem of her shirt—the only dry cloth left on her body. Just as she bent down to press the temporary bandage to the wound, his hand suddenly reached out, gripping her wrist like steel clamps.

He opened his eyes. Those eyes were pitch black, and even in such a weak state, they still gleamed with a startling sharpness, full of doubt and hostility.

"Don't ...... Touch ...... me. "He said hoarsely, every word tinged with pain. Catherine met his gaze without flinching. He gripped her wrist with an unusually strong grip, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"If you want to live, let go." She said, her voice calm and without a trace of emotion.

He stared at her, engaging in a silent battle of wills in the dark cave. Finally, the strength in his hand weakened—blood loss had left him weak. He let go, but the coldness in his eyes did not fade in the slightest.

Catherine ignored his hostility and immediately pressed the cloth tightly against the wound. He gasped in pain, his body tense, but no longer tried to stop her. Her hands were steady, her attention highly focused. She noticed some details—the faint glow of the shockingly expensive watch on his wrist, the ruined fabric of his clothes. This was no ordinary fisherman. This man was wealthy and powerful.

The temperature inside the cave was still dropping. Outside, the storm showed no sign of easing. A chill ran through her body, chilling to the bone. Without fire, both of them would die of hypothermia, faster than his injuries.

A scene flashed through her mind—the pitch-black sea rushing toward her, the cold impact, and the smug face on her cousin's face as he pushed her off the speedboat. Revenge. This thought in her stomach was like a burning coal, warming her from the inside out. She had to go back. She had to make them pay.

And this man—this bleeding wealthy stranger—may be her only way out of this cursed place.

She tried to start a fire. She picked up damp branches and repeatedly struck them with two stones, her hands scraped raw, but it was useless. The wood was too wet, and the air too humid. The taste of failure tasted bitter in her mouth.

The man looked at her. Even though the pain blurred his vision, his gaze remained sharp and analytical. He was skeptical, but couldn't deny her efficiency. He saw her lips pale from the cold, trembling slightly, a trace of inscrutable expression flashing across her face. His intuition, honed in the board and alley dealings, told him—she and he were the same kind of people, both predators.

Her inner professionalism once again prevailed, overcoming the cold. She couldn't let him die. At least not now. She found a few large leaves, collected a small pool of rainwater at the cave entrance, and brought it to his mouth.

"Hah." She whispered the order.

He hesitated, his gaze searching her face for any trace of deception. Then, he drank. His eyes never left her face. Silence spread between them, filling unspoken questions and forming a fragile, temporary truce.

The distrust radiating from him was almost palpable. It slightly hurt her pride. "I didn't save you for you." Her tone was sharp. "I saved you because I needed a ticket to leave this island."

It was as if she had received some kind of signal—fresh blood seeped out from the temporary bandage. The wound needed to be stitched up. But she had nothing. No needles, no threads.

Her gaze quickly swept toward his pocket. Maybe a knife, or a multi-tool tool, anything would do. She reached out to rummage through his jacket.

He grabbed her wrist again—this time much less forcefully. "What are you doing?"

"Find something that can save your life." She said irritably, struggling free from his hand. She rummaged through his pockets, her fingers touching a smooth, waterproof metal box. She opened it—inside was a stack of blank black cards. Useless. Frustrated, she tossed the box aside and began searching the hole, her eyes scanning the ground for sharp stones, hard thorns on plants—anything useful.

The storm was still howling, constantly reminding them of their helpless isolation. She searched while keeping an eye on him out of the corner of her eye—like an animal driven to the brink, always on guard against another.

While examining the wound on his forehead, she gently brushed aside his blood-stained hair, revealing his face clearly for the first time. Even with bruises and paleness, his features were still striking—a sharply defined jawline, a straight nose bridge, and a naturally commanding mouth. Stern and carrying a noble handsomeness.

Her heart skipped a beat, caught off guard. She immediately suppressed that feeling, burying it beneath layers of coldness. This was just a transaction. That was all.

Finally, she found what she wanted—a long, hard thorn on a dead plant, and some tough, supple vines. Primitive, savage. But there was no other choice. She wanted to perform the surgery with a thorn and a few prayers—in this storm-trapped cave, facing a man who looked at her like a robber with a knife.