Reborn To The Wife of a Billionaire with Disabilities

The hallway was dead silent. Mr. Ainsworth looked at the heavy folder in his hands, then down at Carlisle's rigid profile. The butler's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He was completely out of his depth. Eileen did not wait for their brains to reboot. She stepped past the butler, her high heels make a soft sound on the carpet. She positioned herself directly behind Carlisle's wheelchair. She reached out and wrapped her hands around the rubber grips of the push handles. The heat of her palms transferred into the cold metal. Carlisle's spine snapped straight. His shoulders tensed so hard the fabric of his suit strained. His body, conditioned to reject any physical proximity, reacted violently. "Let go." he ordered. His voice was a low, dangerous gravel. Eileen ignored him. She shifted her weight, using her core to push the chair forward. The wheels glided smoothly over the carpet. Her movements were surprisingly steady. She focused, treating the complex chair not as a medical device, but as a machine to be mastered, and her innate coordination took over. Mr. Ainsworth sucked in a sharp breath. He practically jogged to catch up, reaching out to grab the handles back. "Madam, please, I handle Mr. Vinson's-" Eileen turned her head. She shot him a look so flat and devoid of emotion that the butler's hands dropped to his sides. He stepped back, yielding the space. They reached the VIP elevator at the end of the hall. Eileen kept one hand on the chair and used the other to press the down button. The metal doors slid open instantly. She maneuvered the chair into the cabin with precision, making sure the footrests didn't bump the doorframe. She stepped in beside him and hit the button for the third sub-basement parking level. The elevator dropped. The sudden loss of gravity made the air in the small cabin feel thin. Carlisle stared straight ahead at the polished metal doors. He could see Eileen's reflection. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, the relaxed set of her shoulders. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning stark white. A soft ding announced their arrival. The doors slid apart, letting in the damp, cold air of the underground garage. The smell of exhaust fumes and concrete dust hit their noses. Before the doors were fully open, the space erupted. A blinding white flash exploded from behind a concrete pillar. Then another. And another. Four men dressed in grease-stained mechanic jumpsuits lunged forward. They held heavy DSLR cameras, the shutters firing like machine guns. "Eileen! Who was the man in the room?" "Mr. Vinson! Is the Vinson family filing for divorce?" The aggressive questions bounced off the concrete walls, amplifying the chaos. Carlisle's face drained of color. His jaw locked so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He hated this. He hated the cameras capturing his seated, paralyzed form. He hated the vulnerability. His hands clamped down on the armrests, his nails digging into the leather. In the fraction of a second before the estate bodyguards could sprint from the parked cars, Eileen moved. She stepped out from behind the chair, planting herself directly in front of Carlisle. She grabbed the lapels of her beige trench coat and ripped it off her shoulders. With a wide, sweeping motion, she threw the fabric over Carlisle's head and torso. The heavy material draped over him like a protective tent. Darkness swallowed Carlisle instantly. The blinding assault of the flashes vanished. The harsh smell of the garage was replaced by the scent embedded in the coat-a clean, subtle note of orange blossom and warm skin. His breath caught in his throat. Eileen held the edge of the coat down with her left hand, ensuring it didn't slip. She raised her right hand and pointed a single, rigid finger directly at the lead paparazzo. "Back the fuck off," she snarled. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a lethal, physical weight. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with genuine, unhinged aggression. The photographer, a veteran who made his living harassing celebrities, actually flinched. His knees buckled slightly, and he took two rapid steps backward, nearly dropping his heavy lens. Heavy boots pounded against the concrete. Six massive bodyguards in black suits crashed into the paparazzi, forming a solid wall of muscle. They shoved the photographers back, clearing a path. Eileen didn't waste a second. She grabbed the wheelchair handles again and pushed. She moved fast, steering the coat-draped Carlisle toward the idling black Maybach. The driver already had the rear door open. Eileen stepped aside. She watched with sharp eyes as two bodyguards expertly lifted Carlisle from the chair and transferred him to the leather backseat. They did it without touching his sensitive lower back. She leaned in, grabbed her trench coat off the seat, and slid into the car from the opposite side. She pulled the heavy armored door shut. It closed with a solid, airtight thud. The chaos of the garage was instantly muted. The cabin of the Maybach was a sensory deprivation tank. The only sound was the heavy, uneven breathing of the two passengers. Mr. Ainsworth climbed into the front passenger seat. He immediately pressed a button on the console. The thick, black soundproof partition glided up, sealing the rear cabin off completely. Carlisle reached up and adjusted the collar of his suit jacket. His movements were stiff. He turned his head slowly. He looked at the woman sitting next to him. His gray-blue eyes were no longer just cold; they were filled with a turbulent, calculating suspicion. He was looking at her like she was an alien species. Eileen ignored his stare. She draped the trench coat over her lap and turned her head to look out the tinted window. The concrete pillars of the garage blurred past as the car accelerated. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, a harsh, grating rock anthem shattered the quiet. Eileen's phone was ringing inside her coat pocket. She pulled it out. The screen glared brightly in the dim cabin. The caller ID read 'Gwen - Manager', accompanied by a red, angry face emoji. Carlisle watched her. His eyes tracked the phone. Eileen didn't hesitate. She pressed the green accept button and immediately tapped the speaker icon. She rested the phone on her knee, letting the call connect for both of them to hear.