The cold autumn rain hammered against the battered roof of my old Ford with such fury it seemed determined to punch through the metal and wash me away in the swirling currents of the wet pavement. Each drop was another strike against the anvil of my faterelentless, hollow. Id just escaped the sterile, antiseptic hell of the hospital, where a weary-eyed doctor had delivered his verdict like a judge passing sentence: Mums surgery was off the table. The sum he named wasnt just impossible. It was a cruel joke, a reminder of where I stood in lifeat the feet of those for whom such numbers were pocket change.
A year of fighting Mums illness had hollowed me out. I was a ghost, working three jobs, drowning in debts and loans no one would give me anymore. Despair had settled into my bones, its taste like rust on my tongue, impossible to scrub away with food or tears.
And then, in that moment of absolute emptiness, as I sobbed into the steering wheel, my phone rang. Aunt Lydia, persistent as a moth to flame, had found her mark. Her voice crackled through, sharp and businesslike.
“Listen here, Annie, stop blubbering!” she snapped, cutting me off before I could speak. “Im throwing you a lifeline. The Harringtons. Wealth like you wouldnt believe. And their son Well, hes disabled. A bad car crash. Cant walk, barely speaks. They need a carer. Young, strong, presentable. But not just a carera wife. For appearances, for care, so it looks proper. Theyll pay. Handsomely. Think about it.”
It reeked of a deal with the devil. But the devil held my mothers life in his palm. What did my so-called honest life offer me? Poverty, humiliation, and a lonely, pitiful funeral for the only person who truly loved me.
A week of agonizing later, fear won. Now I stood in the centre of their mansions grand hall, feeling like an insect on the polished marble floor. The air was cold, sterile, smelling of money and indifference. Crystal chandeliers, portraits of stern ancestors judging my worthand by the window, in the midst of it all, sat *him*. Edward Harrington.
Confined to a wheelchair, his body looked frail beneath his clothes. But his face It was strikingly handsomesharp cheekbones, dark brows, tousled hair. Yet it was blank, statue-like. His empty gaze fixed on the rain-lashed park outside, as if he saw nothing at all.
His father, Charles Harrington, a silver-haired titan in a tailored suit, assessed me in one glance. I felt like livestock at auction.
“Terms are clear, I presume?” His voice was smooth, cold as steel. “You marry my son. Legally. Care for him, stay by his side. No marital duties beyond appearances. A carer with a wedding ring. After a yeara substantial sum and your freedom. One-month trial. Fail, and youre compensated and gone.”
I nodded, nails biting into my palms. I searched Edwards eyes for any spark. Nothing. He was just a doll, part of the furniture.
The wedding was a quiet, joyless farce. My new room was vast but lifeless, adjoined to his. My days became a blur of spoon-feeding, humiliating routines, silent walks in the park, reading aloud to a man who never reacted. He barely stirreda groan in sleep, a twitch of his finger. I pitied him, this beautiful man trapped in a broken shell. I started talking to him, confessing my fears, my grief for Mum, like he was a diary that couldnt answer back.
Then, after a month, cracks appeared.
One evening, tripping on an expensive rug, I nearly felland Edward let out a sharp, almost human gasp. I froze. His face stayed blank. Just my imagination, I told myself.
The next morning, my favourite hairpinmy only bright possessionwent missing. I tore the room apart. That night, I found it on his nightstand, placed neatly where I never went. Maybe Id forgotten.
Then the book. Id been reading him *The Cherry Orchard* when the hospital called about Mums tests. Id tucked it into his desk drawer. The next morning, it lay on the breakfast table, open at my page, marked by a lizard-shaped paperweight Id never seen. My hands shook. No accident.
I started testing him. Pretending to sleep, leaving things out, saying things only he could confirm if he heard me.
“I bet there are peonies behind the old oak in the garden,” I murmured one day, massaging his stiff fingers. The spot was just weeds.
The next day, Charles mentioned to the gardener, “Were putting in a new flowerbed. Peonies. Behind the old oak. Good idea.”
Ice shot down my spine. This wasnt paranoia. It was a conspiracy.
The truth came at midnight. A faint rustle from Edwards room. I crept to the door, cracked it open. Moonlight spilled over the empty bed. My heart lurched.
Then, a scrape from Charless study. I slunk in like a shadow.
Edward stood at the desk, gripping it, muscles taut, sweat glistening. He whispered furiously at papers. Not a vegetable. Not helpless. A caged animal, full of rage.
I stepped backthe floor creaked.
He froze. Turned. His eyes werent empty. They blazed with terror.
“Quiet,” he rasped, voice rusty from disuse. A threat, primal and cold.
Behind me, a shadow fell. Charles stood in the doorway, holding not a weapon but a thick file.
“Our little bird saw too much,” he said calmly. “Come in, Annie. Lets talk.”
The truth unspooled. Edwards fiancée, Lillian, had died in the crash. Her father, Victor Crowe, blamed Edward. He wanted blood. The wheelchair? A ruse. Edwards spine was damaged, but his mindand willwere intact. If Crowe suspected
“Youre the decoy,” Charles said. “A wife draws less suspicion than nurses he could bribe.”
Betrayal burned. “You used me.”
“We saved your mother,” Charles countered. “Her treatment, surgery, recoveryyour payment. For silence. From now on, your life depends on how well you lie.”
Edwards hand gripped mine. “Youll die if you talk.”
I understood. Id sold myself into a war.
A year passed in paranoia. I lived two lives: devoted wife to the world, conspirator in private. Edward relearned to walk at night, gritting through pain. We spoke in glances. Hatred for Crowe drove him. Mums recovery drove me.
Then, the trap. A “gardener” slipped onto the balconyCrowes assassin. We caught him, syringe in hand.
One month later, Crowe was arrested. The war was over.
In the grand hall, a divorce paper and a cheque waited. Charles offered me morename, status, money. “Stay.”
I looked at Edward. He stood by the fireplace, cane in hand, eyes clear. “No,” I said. “I came to save my mother. Were even.”
I took the cheque. Not payment for my year. Payment for Mums future.
“Annie,” Edward called as I left. His voice was stronger. “Thank you.”
I nodded. Smiled faintly. Stepped out.
Snow fell, light and clean. The air smelled of freedom. I had nothing. No job, no plan. But I had my lifehard-won, and finally mine.
