Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

The next morning, the reality of Darcie's "victory" set in.

She was sitting in the study adjacent to the ICU. Dr. Aris had pinned a series of brain scans onto the light board. They looked like storm clouds.

"Massive trauma to the brain stem," Aris said, tapping a dark spot with his pen. "He's in a persistent vegetative state. Locked-in syndrome is a theoretical possibility, but highly unlikely given the extent of the damage. Optimistically? Three months."

Darcie looked at the scans. A strange pang of sadness hit her. He was a war hero. A titan of industry. And now he was just a timer counting down.

Mr. Sterling cleared his throat. He slid a folder across the desk.

"Since time is short, Mrs. Maxwell, the Trust Committee has activated the 'Widow-Maker' clause."

Darcie frowned. "The what?"

"It's an anti-fraud measure," Sterling said, not meeting her eyes. "To ensure the marriage is... consummated. Or at least, that the spousal duties are fulfilled."

"He's in a coma," Darcie said, her voice rising. "What do you expect him to do?"

"Intimacy is required," Aris interjected clinically. "We call it 'Sensory Stimulation Therapy.' You need to provide two hours of direct skin-to-skin contact massage daily. It stimulates the nerve endings. Keeps the blood flowing."

"And," Sterling added, "you must sleep in the same bed. Every night. The cameras will verify your attendance."

Darcie stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "This is perverted. I'm a human being, not a heating pad," she declared.

"It's the condition for the inheritance," Sterling said calmly.

He opened the last page of the folder.

"If you fulfill these duties until his death, you inherit the Manhattan penthouse portfolio. Estimated value: fifty million dollars."

Darcie stopped breathing.

Fifty million.

That wasn't just money. That was freedom. That was paying off her stepmother's debts ten times over. That was never having to count backward from ten to stop a panic attack again.

She looked at Sterling. She thought of Hugh and Gwendolyn laughing at her.

She sat back down.

"Just massage and sleeping?" she asked. "No... weird stuff?"

Aris coughed. "Strictly medical contact. Unless... well, that's your prerogative."

Darcie picked up the pen.

"Deal. But I have a condition."

Sterling raised an eyebrow.

"For these three months, the East Wing is mine. Gwendolyn and Hugh are banned unless me invites them. I don't want them stressing the patient."

"Reasonable," Sterling agreed. "Sign it."

Darcie signed her name. Darcie Maxwell.

She walked out of the study. A maid was hovering by the door, trying to eavesdrop.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "New rules."

The maid scampered away.

Darcie walked back into the hospital room. Fleet was exactly where she left him.

She sighed and walked over to the bed.

"Well, old man," she said, reaching for the buttons of his pajama top. "Looks like I have to feel you up for fifty million dollars."

Feel me up? Fleet thought.

The thought was a jagged shard of ice in the darkness for him. The indignity burned. He was a soldier. A commander. Now, he was a piece of meat to be groped for cash by a woman with a voice like velvet and the morals of a pirate.

Darcie undid the buttons, exposing his chest.

It was... impressive. Even after weeks in bed, the muscles were defined, scarred here and there from what she assumed were shrapnel wounds.

She poured some lotion onto her hands and rubbed them together to warm it up.

"Sorry if my hands are cold," she muttered.

She placed her palms flat on his chest.

Heat. Her hands were small, but the pressure was firm, sure. The heat seeped through his cold skin, a jolt of pure sensation that bypassed the static and hit the nerve endings that were screaming for input. He hated it. He hated that it felt good. Don't stop, a traitorous part of his brain whispered from the abyss.

In the security booth, Dr. Aris watched the monitor. Darcie had seen the slight flicker in the ECG feed when she touched him-a telltale spike. While his back was turned, she'd discreetly pulled out her phone and activated the data-smoothing script her brother Garey had designed for her. It wouldn't erase major events, but it would soften micro-fluctuations, bundling them into the machine's acceptable margin of error. Dr. Aris, who she suspected was on Gwendolyn's payroll, would see nothing but baseline noise.

He scribbled a note.

Subject heart rate stable. Sympathetic reflex to touch within expected parameters. Therapy initiated.