Chapter 3: The Unlikely Bond

The cold, dimly lit room was thick with tension. He sat in his wheelchair, the man who had once been the heir to a vast empire. Now, he was nothing more than a shadow, bound to the very thing that had ruined him, the wheelchair. His once, commanding presence now felt dwarfed by the emptiness that surrounded him. He looked at her, his wife, the woman who had been thrust into his life by a contract neither of them had wanted.

"Why are you still here?" His voice was sharp, full of venom and exhaustion. He had no desire to make small talk with her. She was a stranger, after all. A woman sold to him by her family as a mere transaction.

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers gently traced the contours of his legs, lingering on the muscles that had once been strong, now atrophied from disuse. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pang of helplessness that flared up inside him at the touch.

"What do you want from me, woman?" he snapped, his gaze narrowing. "I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your sympathy. I’m broken, do you understand? There’s nothing you can do."

Her eyes met his without hesitation, unwavering and calm. "You’re not broken. You can heal."

He chuckled bitterly, a dark sound that reverberated through the room. "Heal? I’m a cripple. You don’t heal from this. I’ve been to doctors, to specialists, they all said the same thing. I’m stuck like this."

She crouched beside him, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. "They said it was impossible because they didn’t believe. But I believe in you. I know you can stand again."

He scoffed, incredulous. "You’re delusional. No one—"

"But I’m not no one," she interrupted softly, her voice steady. "I’m your wife. And I’ve seen this before. My mother…" Her voice faltered, just for a second. But the quiet vulnerability in that brief pause didn’t go unnoticed. "She healed herself after a similar injury. It took time, effort, patience, and faith, but she did it."

His eyes softened for a moment as he processed her words, though doubt still clouded his mind. The thought of regaining the use of his legs seemed impossible. It wasn’t just the physical damage, it was the years of humiliation, the ridicule, the feeling of being less than what he once was. He had never considered there was a way back. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had been the king of his world.

"Why would you help me?" he asked, the question raw. "What do you get from this? You’re just as trapped as I am. Your family sold you to me for a contract. I’m nothing but a cage."

Her lips quirked upward, a faint smile on her face. "Maybe I’m not here for what you think I am." She leaned in closer, her presence quiet but intense. "I’m here because I see you for who you truly are. You’re not a cripple. You’re just someone who’s been forgotten."

His breath hitched slightly at her words. No one had ever seen him that way, no one had ever looked past the wheelchair, past the visible scars, and seen the man beneath it all. Not even his own family. He hated it. He hated that she was right, that she could see through his walls. But the strange warmth that bloomed in his chest made him uneasy.

"I’m not asking for your sympathy," he said, his voice harder this time, trying to shove the emotions that were rising inside him back down. "I don’t need someone to pity me. I’ve survived this long by myself."

She looked at him, her expression full of quiet determination. "I’m not here to pity you. I’m here to help you. If you let me."

He turned his gaze to the floor, to his legs, still unhealed. His world had revolved around control, around strength, around dominance. And now, all that remained was this vulnerability. The very thought of someone else taking charge of his recovery, of his life, made him want to lash out. But she wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t pushing him. She was simply waiting for him to choose.

A long silence passed before he spoke again, his voice almost a whisper. "What if I can’t do it? What if I’m stuck like this forever?"

Her answer was simple, yet it held a power that struck him deeper than any medical diagnosis ever could. "Then I’ll be here to remind you that it’s not the end. You have a choice."

For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of hope, a spark of something he thought he had lost forever. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. There was no pity in her eyes, no judgment. Just a quiet faith in him.

But just as he was about to say something—anything, there was a sudden, loud knock at the door.

"Mr. Johnson ," a voice called out from outside. "There’s someone here to see you. It’s urgent."

His heart raced, a familiar rush of panic surging through him. Visitors were never a good thing. The last thing he wanted was someone intruding on this moment of uncertainty, of vulnerability.

"Go away," he snapped. "I don’t want to see anyone."

But the door creaked open, and to his horror, a figure stepped inside, one he hadn’t seen in years. A man he never thought he would see again, standing in the doorway with a smirk on his face.

"Hello, cousin," the man said, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "I see you’ve been getting cozy with your wife. I hope you’re not forgetting that she’s just as much a pawn in this game as you are."

The room seemed to shrink. His heart thudded in his chest, his thoughts spiraling. What is he doing here?

The sudden appearance of the man,his cousin, who had once been a rival, now bearing the weight of old family grudges, threatened to unravel everything. What does he want? And how would his return affect the fragile trust between the husband and wife?