In my darkest hour, I agreed to marry the bedridden heir of a wealthy family. Within a month, I began to notice something strange…
A bitter autumn storm lashed against the battered roof of my old Ford, the rain hammering down as though it meant to tear through the metal and wash me away, along with my grief, into the gutters. Every drop felt like another blow to the anvil of my fate, relentless and hollow. I had just fled the sterile, deathly fear of the hospital, where a weary doctor had delivered his verdict yet againrefusing to operate on my mother. The sum he named wasnt just impossible. It was a cruel joke, a reminder of my place in lifebeneath the feet of those for whom such amounts were mere pocket change.
For a year, I had fought my mothers illness, and in doing so, I had lost myself. I was a ghost, worn thin by three jobs, drowning in debts, and denied even the smallest loan. Despair had become my shadow, its taste like rust on my tongue, unshaken by food or tears.
Then, in that moment of utter emptiness, as I sobbed into the steering wheel, the phone rang. It was Aunt Mabel, relentless and persistent as a moth to flame. Her voice, sharp and businesslike, cut through the noise.
“Listen here, Annie, stop your blubbering!” she snapped before I could speak. “Im throwing you a lifeline. The Harringtons. Wealth beyond our wildest dreams. And their son well, hes an invalid. A terrible accident left him bedridden, barely speaks. They want a carer. Young, strong, presentable. But not just a carer a wife. In name only. For appearances, for care, to keep things proper. Theyll pay handsomely. Think about it.”
It reeked of a bargainnot just a deal, but a sale of the soul. Yet the devil offering it held my mothers life in his palm. And what had my so-called honest life given me? Poverty, humiliation, and the spectre of a lonely, pitiful funeral for the only person I loved.
For a week, I wrestled with doubt, but the fear of losing her outweighed everything. And so I found myself standing in the heart of their manor, feeling like an insect on the polished marble floor. The air was cold, sterile, smelling of money and indifference. Marble pillars, crystal chandeliers, portraits of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to bore into me, judging my worth. And by the grand window, where the same relentless rain battered the glass, sat *him*.
Edward Harrington.
Confined to a wheelchair, his body frail beneath fine clothing, he was a figure of stillness. But his facestrikingly handsome, sharp cheekbones, dark brows, yet utterly devoid of expression, like a statue. His gaze, vacant and glassy, fixed on the storm outside, as though he saw nothing at all.
His father, Reginald Harrington, a silver-haired titan in an immaculate suit, assessed me in one piercing glance. I felt like livestock at auction.
“The terms are clear, I trust?” His voice was smooth, cold as steel. “You marry my son. Legally. You care for him, stay by his side, ensure his comfort. No marital duties beyond appearances. You are a companion, a nurse, wrapped in the title of wife. In a yeara substantial sum in your account, and your freedom. A months trial. Fail, and youll be compensated for your time and dismissed.”
I nodded, nails digging into my palms. I searched Edwards eyes for any spark, any flicker of life. Nothing. He was a doll, part of the décor.
The wedding was quiet, joyless, a dismal play. I was given a spacious but lifeless room adjoining his quarters. My days became a numb routine: spoon-feeding him, humiliating ablutions, silent walks in the garden, reading aloud to a man who never reacted. He rarely stirredonly the occasional whimper in sleep, a twitch of his fingers. I grew used to his silence, his hollow stare. Pity gnawed at methis young, beautiful man, trapped in a broken body. I began speaking to him, pouring out my fears, my grief for my mother, as though he were a diary that could never answer.
But after a month, something shifted. Reality cracked.
One evening, as I carried in his dinner, my heel caught on the edge of an ornate Persian rug. I stumbled, nearly felland from Edwards chest came not a groan, but a sharp, unmistakable gasp of alarm. I froze. His face remained blank. A trick of the mind, I told myself.
The next morning, my favourite hairpinmy one bright possession in this grim placewas missing. I tore the room apart. That night, as I settled Edward into bed, I found it. On his nightstand, on the side I never touched. Placed neatly, as though set there with care. I blamed my own exhaustion.
Then came the book. Id been reading him *The Cherry Orchard* when the hospital called about Mothers tests. I tucked it into his drawer to save my place. The next morning, it lay on the breakfast tray, open to the right page, marked by a lizard-shaped paperweight Id never seen. My hands shook. This was no accident.
So I began my quiet war. I watched. Pretended to sleep, left things in odd places, whispered things only he could confirmif he heard.
“Poppies would look lovely by the old oak,” I mused one day, massaging his stiff fingers. In truth, the spot was overgrown with weeds.
The next evening, his father remarked casually to the gardener, “Well plant poppies by the oak. Good idea.”
A chill slithered down my spine. This was no delusion. It was a conspiracy.
The truth came late one night. A faint rustling from his room sent me creeping to the door. Moonlight spilled over the empty bed. My heart lurched. I nearly screamedthen heard a soft scrape from his fathers study.
I stole inside like a shadow.
There he was. Edward. *Standing* at the desk, hands braced, muscles taut with effort, sweat gleaming on his bare back. He was whisperingfierce, desperate, soundless wordsover scattered papers. This was no invalid. This was a man, caged but seething with fury.
I stepped back. The floor creaked.
He froze. Turned.
His eyes in the moonlight held no vacancyonly raw, primal terror. We stared, the truth between us. He knew hed been caught. I knew Id seen what could get me killed.
He staggered forward, gripping a chair. His face twisted not with pain, but with the agony of forcing his body to obey.
“Silence,” he rasped, his voice rusted from disuse. Not a plea. A command, laced with threat.
A shadow fell over me. His father stood in the doorway, velvet-clad, unshaken. In his handnot a weapon, but a thick folder. Somehow, that was worse.
“Our little bird has flown too far,” he said calmly. “Come in, Annie. Lets talk.”
I stepped inside, numb with understanding. I hadnt sold myself to eccentrics. Id stepped into a warand my husband, broken in body but unbroken in spirit, was the target.
The game had only just begun.
A year later, the war ended. Krovik was arrested, his empire crumbled. I stood again in that gilded hall, where a cheque and divorce papers waited.
Reginalds gaze was no longer cold. “Stay. The name, the wealthit could be yours. We could start anew.”
Edward, leaning on a cane but upright, looked at me with something deeper than gratitude.
“No,” I said softly. “I came to save my mother. The debt is paid.”
I took the cheque. Not payment for my yearbut for her future. My own, I would build myself.
As I left, snow fellclean, cold, free. I breathed deep. The air no longer tasted of lies.
I had nothing. No plan, no home.
But I had my life. And that was enough.
