The frigid autumn rain hammered against the rusted roof of my old Ford Fiesta with such force it threatened to drown out the ache in my chest. Each drop felt like another nail in the coffin of my hope, relentless and deafening. Id just fled the sterile, bleach-scented purgatory of the hospital, where yet another exhausted consultant had delivered the same verdictMums surgery was impossible without money we didnt have. The sum he quoted wasnt just unaffordable. It was a cruel joke, a reminder of my place in this world: small, insignificant, scrambling in the dirt while others tossed fortunes at frivolities.
A year of battling Mums illness had hollowed me out. I was a ghost of myself, surviving on three jobs, drowning in loans, and swallowing pride like bitter medicine. Despair had become my shadow, its metallic taste clinging to my tongue no matter how hard I scrubbed it away.
And then, in that moment of complete collapsecheek pressed to the steering wheel, sobbingmy phone rang. Aunt Lydia, persistent as a moth to flame, had found her prey. Her voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and businesslike.
“Listen, Annie, stop crying and pull yourself together!” she snapped. “Im throwing you a lifeline. The Harringtons. Wealth like you cant fathom. Their son well, hes disabled. A car crash. Doesnt walk, barely speaks. They need a nurse. Young, sturdy, presentable. But not just a nursea wife. On paper, of course. For appearances, for care. Theyll pay. Generously.”
It reeked of a deal with the devil. But the devil held my mothers life in his palm. What had honesty ever given me? Debt, humiliation, and the certainty of burying the only person who ever loved me.
A week of torment later, I stood in the marble heart of their mansion, dwarfed by crystal chandeliers and ancestral portraits sneering down at me. The air smelled of money and ice. And by the window, silhouetted against the storm, sat *him*. Edward Harrington.
Bound to a wheelchair, his frame was frail, his posture broken. But his faceGod, his face was striking. Sharp cheekbones, thick brows, dark hair. Yet his eyes were empty, fixed on the rain-lashed gardens as if seeing nothing at all.
His father, Charles Harrington, silver-haired and immaculate, assessed me with a single piercing glance. I felt like livestock at auction.
“The terms are clear,” he said, voice like polished steel. “You marry my sonlegally. Care for him, stay by his side. No marital duties beyond appearances. Youre a companion, a nurse with a ring. One year, and you walk away with a fortune. Fail the trial month, and youre paid for your time and dismissed.”
I nodded, nails biting into my palms. I searched Edwards face for any flicker of awareness. Nothing. He was a beautiful statue, frozen in his own mind.
The wedding was a joyless pantomime. My new room, though lavish, felt like a gilded cage. My days became a numb routine: spoon-feeding, humiliating baths, silent walks through the grounds. He rarely stirredjust the occasional twitch or groan in sleep. I pitied him, this shattered man trapped in his own body. Slowly, I began speaking to him, confessing my fears about Mum, as if he were a diary that couldnt judge.
Then, after a month, the cracks appeared.
I tripped over an antique rug, nearly falling. A sound tore from Edwards throatnot a moan, but a sharp, human gasp. I froze. His expression hadnt changed. My imagination, I told myself.
The next morning, my favourite hairclip vanished. That evening, I found it on his nightstandplaced deliberately. Then, the book. Id tucked *Pride and Prejudice* into his drawer. By morning, it sat on the breakfast table, marked with a jade lizard brooch Id never seen.
Coincidence? No.
I started testing him. Pretending to nap, moving objects, whispering lies only he could disprove. “The old oak by the east gate would be perfect for bluebells,” I murmured one day, knowing the spot was barren. The next evening, Charles mentioned new flower beds*bluebells by the oak*.
Ice slithered down my spine. This wasnt paranoia. It was a conspiracy.
The truth came at midnight. A rustle from Edwards room. I crept to the door, cracked it open
The bed was empty.
My pulse roared. Then, a scrape of wood. His fathers study. I inched closer, breath held.
Edward *stood* at the desk, sweat glistening on his bare back, muscles taut with agony. He hissed at documents, his voice raw from disuse. Not a vegetable. Not helpless. A man fighting his own body with feral desperation.
The floor creaked. He whipped around. Moonlight caught his eyesnot vacant. Terrified. Furious. *Caught.*
“Dont speak,” he rasped, each word a battle.
A shadow fell over me. Charles stood in the doorway, holding not a weapon but a file. Far more dangerous.
“Our little bird saw too much,” he said calmly. “Come. Lets talk.”
The truth spilled like poison. Edwards fiancée, *Lillian*, had died in the crash. Her father, Victor Croft, blamed him. Wanted him dead. The “marriage”? A smokescreen.
“You *used* me,” I choked.
Charles didnt flinch. “We saved your mother. Top surgeons. Experimental treatments. *Thats* your payment. For silence. For staying.” His gaze hardened. “Now, your life depends on how well you lie.”
Edwards fingers dug into the armrest. “Theyll kill you if you talk.”
I understood. Id sold myself into a war.
A year passed in a blur of paranoia and rehearsed smiles. Edward relearned to walk in secret, gritting through pain. I stood guard, my shoulder his crutch. We communicated in glances. His hatred for Croft fueled him; my mothers recovery kept me sane.
Then, the trap.
A “gardener” slid onto the balcony at midnight, syringe in hand. We were ready. Lights blazed. Charles men seized him. The syringe held enough to mimic suicideproof of Crofts plot.
A month later, Croft was in cuffs, his empire crumbling.
In the same gilded room where Id signed my soul away, Charles offered me permanencename, wealth, *a real marriage*.
I looked at Edward, now standing unaided, his gaze heavy with gratitude and something deeper.
“No,” I said. “I came to save my mother. Ive done that. Were even.”
I took the check. Not for mefor Mums future. Mine, Id build alone.
At the door, Edward called out, voice rough but clear. “Thank you.”
I smiled faintly. Stepped into the snow.
The air smelled of freedom.
