He Faked Paralysis—So I Married His Billionaire Enemy

I gave up my billionaire inheritance to become Sean's free maid.

Two years ago, he saved me from a car crash and was paralyzed from the waist down.

Guilt-ridden, I stayed by his side, scrubbing floors and enduring his endless temper.

Everyone mocked me for ruining my life for a cripple.

But I loved him, believing my sacrifice meant something.

Until the night of his birthday party.

He didn't show up, but I received a video from his secret lover, Josie.

In the video, Sean stood perfectly on his feet, pinning her against the wall.

"Sean, why haven't you told Wendy your legs are fine?" Josie giggled.

"If she knows, she'll pressure me to marry her," Sean sneered, ripping my custom wedding dress off her shoulder. "She's just a free maid. Not good enough to be my wife."

***

At midnight, my phone lit up with a video from Josie.

I expected another smug message about the office, or one more photo of her leaning too close to my fiancé. Instead, the screen showed Sean standing on his own two feet.

He had Josie pinned against the white door of a hotel suite. One hand gripped her waist. The other was tangled in her hair. When he kissed her, there was nothing weak or uncertain about the way he moved.

“Sean,” Josie laughed, breathless. “Isn’t it Wendy’s birthday? She booked that private dining room weeks ago.”

“Let her wait.” He glanced toward the phone as if he knew she was recording. “I told her physical therapy ran late.”

Josie tipped her head. “Five years together, and she still believes you?”

“She wants to believe me.” His mouth twisted. “That makes her useful.”

Useful.

The word landed harder than the sight of him standing.

Josie stepped back, revealing the ivory silk gown she wore. My gown. I had spent six months designing it, fitting the bodice by hand, and hiding every stitch from Sean because I wanted to surprise him on our wedding day.

She turned in front of the mirror. “Does it look better on me?”

“It looks like it was made for you,” Sean said. “On Wendy, it would look like a sack. She has no style left. No ambition, either.”

“She gave up her family for you.”

“She chose to play nurse.” He shrugged. “Why would I stop her? She cooks, cleans, pays most of the bills, and asks for almost nothing.”

Josie slid her arms around his neck. “And what does she get?”

“A ring she hasn’t earned yet.”

The video ended.

For a moment, I heard only the soft hiss of the candle on my strawberry shortcake. I sat alone at a twelve-seat table in the private room I had reserved for us. One candle had burned down to a crooked pool of wax. Two untouched dinners had gone cold.

I picked up the cake and carried it to the trash can beside the service station. The porcelain plate shattered when I dropped it in. Cream struck the black liner in a white burst.

The server appeared in the doorway with our untouched entrées boxed in paper bags. Her polite smile slipped when she saw the ruined cake.

“Would you like me to call someone?” she asked.

For five birthdays, I had defended Sean to strangers. I had explained his moods, his pain, his late appointments, and his forgotten promises. Tonight, I was too tired to invent another excuse.

“No,” I said. “Please charge the card and keep the food.”

I left enough cash on the table to cover the staff’s time. It was the first money I had spent all evening that did not feel wasted.

Then I opened the chat with my mother.

I had ignored her for two years. I had refused every warning, every invitation home, and every carefully worded offer to rescue me from the life I insisted on choosing.

My hands did not shake as I typed.

Mom, I’ll meet the man you chose.

Her reply arrived almost at once.

I wondered when you would finally wake up. Tomorrow, eight o’clock. I’ll send his profile.

Send it.

A file appeared on my screen, but I did not open it yet. I wanted to leave one decision for tomorrow. Tonight, I had something else to finish.

Thirty minutes later, the apartment door opened.

Sean rolled his wheelchair across the hardwood, wearing the same charcoal shirt from the video. He had changed his trousers, but not his cologne. Josie’s perfume clung to him beneath it.

“Why are the lights off?” he demanded. “I spent four hours in therapy. The least you could do is leave a lamp on.”

“How was it?” I asked.

“Agonizing.” He tugged at his collar. “The doctor thinks the nerve damage may be permanent.”

I looked at the expensive leather loafers resting neatly on the footplates. “That must be difficult.”

“It is. Where’s dinner?”

“I didn’t cook.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“I said I didn’t cook.”

“Then make something now. Beef soup. I need protein after therapy.”

“Make it yourself.”

Silence filled the room.

Sean gripped the armrests. “You live here rent-free.”

“I pay most of the rent.”

“Because I’m disabled.” His voice rose. “A real partner would understand that. Instead, you sit around sketching clothes no one buys and act exhausted after one grocery run.”

“My work paid for your rent, your appointments, and that chair.”

“And you remind me every chance you get.” His face reddened. “God, Wendy. You love making yourself the victim.”

I studied him, wondering how many times he had rehearsed that accusation while standing in front of a mirror.

“Do your feet hurt?” I asked.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway. “They’re numb.”

“Then why did you buy new loafers?”

“What is wrong with you tonight?” he snapped. “Did you expect a birthday present? I’m injured. You’re supposed to support me, not make demands.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Good. Then get me ice water.”

Before I could answer, the door opened again.

Josie walked in with Sean’s jacket over one arm and a gray scarf in her hand. She wore a red knit dress and the smile of a woman entering a room she already considered hers.

“You forgot this in my car,” she said.

She looped the uneven scarf around Sean’s neck. “I stayed up three nights making it. Is it warm enough?”

He touched the rough wool as if it were cashmere. “Perfect. You actually think about me.”

His gaze shifted to the navy scarf on the side table. I had knitted it for our anniversary from yarn that cost more than his shoes. He had called it itchy and thrown it aside.

Sean picked it up and tossed it to Josie.

“Use this for your dog’s bed.”

Josie laughed. “My golden retriever will appreciate Wendy’s hard work.”

My phone buzzed.

I finally opened the profile my mother had sent.

A dark-haired man in a tailored suit stared back at me from the screen. Beneath his photograph were three lines.

Alexander Sterling. Thirty-two. Chairman and CEO of Sterling Group.

Estimated net worth: twenty-eight billion dollars.

My mother’s final message appeared beneath it.

He already said yes.