Everyone Thought My Fiancé Was A Crippled Monster

I crept down the hallway. The hardwood froze the soles of my bare feet. The shadows in the penthouse felt heavy, pressing down on my chest. I reached the end of the corridor and stepped into the sprawling living area.

A single floor lamp cast a harsh, yellow glow. Shards of a shattered whiskey glass glittered on the rug.

In the center of the room sat a man in a wheelchair. His broad shoulders faced away from me.

"Clara."

The voice was rough, scraping like sandpaper against stone.

I froze. The name hung in the air. My real name died in my throat. I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to remember the lie. I was Clara now.

"Yes," I answered.

The electric wheelchair whirred. He spun around to face me.

A black fabric mask covered the lower half of his face, hiding his nose and mouth completely. Above the dark material, his eyes locked onto mine. They were ice-cold, piercing, and entirely devoid of warmth.

"You took your time," Rowan Gray said.

"I heard a crash."

"And you hesitated. Cowardice."

"I didn't want to intrude," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"Your father must be truly desperate," Rowan mocked. His gaze raked over my simple clothes. "Sending his prized daughter into the dark. Did you cry when he forced you into the car?"

"I made my choice," I replied.

"A martyr. How touching." He reached into the side pouch of his chair and tossed a thick manila folder onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy slap. "The contract. Have you read it?"

I stepped closer, keeping a safe distance from the shattered glass. "My father explained the terms."

"One year." His eyes narrowed, analyzing my posture. "A marriage in name. But you will perform the duties required of a wife in this house. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you?" He rolled the chair forward. The wheels crunched over a piece of broken glass. "Because my caretaker walked out this afternoon. You will assist me."

Panic flared in my chest. "Assist you with what?"

"Bathing. Dressing." He tilted his head. "Or does the thought of touching a cripple turn your stomach, Clara?"

My cheeks burned. I wanted to run back to the elevator. I thought of Evelyn weeping, of Arthur begging. I had to survive this.

"No," I lied. "I can help."

"Then follow." He turned the chair around and rolled toward the master suite.

He led me into the bathroom. The space was enormous, lined with dark gray slate and harsh fluorescent lights.

"Run the water," he ordered.

I turned the silver handle of the massive tub. Warm steam billowed into the cold air.

"Is this temperature acceptable?" I asked.

"Too hot."

I turned the cold dial. "Now?"

"Acceptable. Turn it off."

I shut off the faucet. Silence filled the room, broken only by the dripping of the tap.

"Take off my shirt," he commanded.

I turned around. He sat completely still, his arms resting on the armrests.

I stepped up to him. My fingers shook. I reached for the top button of his dress shirt.

"You shake like a leaf," Rowan mocked. "Are you terrified, or just incompetent?"

"I am merely cold," I lied.

"Liar. You look at me and see a monster."

"I see my husband."

He laughed. A harsh, grating sound that echoed off the slate walls. "Husband. A word on a piece of paper."

I kept my mouth shut. I slipped the button through the hole. Then the next. I peeled the cotton fabric back, sliding it off his broad shoulders. Jagged, raised scars marred his collarbone and chest.

I forced my expression to remain blank.

"Don't stare," he snapped.

"I'm not staring."

I reached up to unfasten the strap of his mask.

His hand shot out. His fingers clamped around my wrist like an iron vise. The grip sent a sharp ache up my arm.

"Keep the mask on," he growled. "Touch it, and you're out on the street. Your father's company will burn by morning."

I yanked my arm back. "I won't touch it."

"Wash my back."

I grabbed a sponge from the counter, applied soap, and moved behind his chair. I scrubbed the soapy sponge over his scarred skin. The tension in his muscles felt like coiled wire.

"Did your father promise you a massive payout for this?" Rowan asked.

"No."

"Another lie."

"I am doing what is required of me," I said.

"Does my skin repulse you?"

"I am just doing my job."

"A job. Right. A paid whore with a ring."

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I rinsed the soap away with a handheld showerhead. I grabbed a thick towel and draped it over his shoulders.

"We are finished," I said.

I walked to the closet, pulled out a clean black t-shirt, and brought it back. I helped him guide his arms through the sleeves. He snatched the hem and pulled it down himself, adjusting the fabric over his chest.

"Get out," he muttered, turning his chair away from me.

"Do you need anything else?"

"I said get out."

I didn't wait for him to yell again. I spun on my heel and marched out of the bathroom, through the dark living room, and straight down the opposite hallway.

I slipped into my guest room and shut the door behind me. My legs gave out. I slid down the solid wood until I hit the floor.

I pulled my knees to my chest. One night down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.

I climbed into the massive king-sized bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The silence of the penthouse returned, heavier than before. I closed my eyes, exhausted to my bones.

Then, a sound broke the quiet.

*Click.*

It came from my bedroom door.

I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I threw off the blankets and rushed to the door. I grabbed the brass handle and pulled.

It didn't move.

I twisted the knob harder. Nothing.

Someone had locked me in from the outside.