Chapter 2: The Wheelchair Groom
1031words
"Miss Mercer." A tall, thin man with surprisingly kind eyes greeted me at the door. "I'm Finnegan, Mr. Blackwood's personal assistant. Welcome to Blackwood Estate."
"Just Lyra is fine," I said, attempting a smile that felt brittle on my face.
Finnegan took my suitcase with gentle efficiency. "Mr. Blackwood is waiting in his study. Would you like a moment to freshen up first?"
"No," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Better to face the dragon in his den right away."
Finnegan's lips twitched. "He's more of a wounded lion than a dragon, if I may say so."
As he led me through the halls, I felt like I was walking through a museum rather than a home. Expensive art hung on every wall, but there were no photos, no personal touches.
We passed a room with the door slightly ajar. Inside, I glimpsed what looked like a wall of trophies and photographs. Finnegan quickly moved to close it, but not before I saw a younger, smiling Thorne standing on a snowy mountain peak.
We stopped before massive double doors. Finnegan knocked once.
"Enter," came a voice from inside.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the dimly lit study. The scent of leather and expensive cologne hung in the air. A massive desk dominated the space, and behind it sat Thorne Blackwood.
The photo hadn't prepared me. Even sitting down, his presence filled the room. His face was more angular than in the magazine cover, his jaw sharper, his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—harder. He'd grown a short beard since the photo, which only emphasized his severe features.
"So you're the sacrificial bride," he said, his voice deep and flat.
I straightened my spine, refusing to be intimidated. "And you're the man who buys wives. We all have our quirks."
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and for a moment, something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes.
I sat across from him, noticing how he positioned his wheelchair to hide it as much as possible behind the desk. His hands, I noticed, were strong, with long fingers that tapped once on the desk surface.
"Let's be clear about what this is," he said. "This is a business arrangement. You get your father's medical bills paid. I get a wife for public appearances. Nothing more."
"No romance? And here I was hoping for a fairy tale." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
His eyes narrowed, but then he surprised me. "Fairy tales are for children. This is reality."
"Reality doesn't have to be cold," I said quietly, meeting his gaze.
Something shifted in his expression—a brief crack in his armor. "Cold is safe," he said, almost to himself.
"Your father's treatment begins tomorrow at Massachusetts General," he said, changing the subject. "The best oncologist in the country will oversee his care."
My breath caught in my throat. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. It's part of our deal."
"Still. You didn't have to start so quickly."
Thorne looked away. "I know what it's like to wait for medical help that comes too late," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.
I skimmed the contract he gave me. "So I'm expected to attend business functions, charity events, and play the devoted wife in public. But behind closed doors, we lead separate lives."
I glanced up and found him watching me intently. There was something almost hungry in his gaze—not sexual, but... searching.
"And I get my own suite of rooms."
"On the opposite wing from mine." Was that relief in his voice? Or disappointment?
I flipped to the last page. "This is... a very generous settlement."
"I can afford it."
"What happens if I break the contract?" My fingers nervously traced the edge of the paper, , feeling the weight of each word printed there. This wasn't just a document—it was a cage, albeit a gilded one.
"You don't get the settlement, and your father's medical care stops." He delivered the threat without emotion, but I noticed how his gaze dropped momentarily to my hands, watching their nervous movement.
"And if you break it?" I challenged, leaning forward slightly.
Something flashed in his eyes—pain? Memory? "I won't." The words came out rough, almost wounded. "I've broken enough promises for one lifetime."
The admission hung in the air between us, unexpected and raw. I wanted to ask what promises he'd broken, whose trust he'd betrayed. But the vulnerability in his expression was already being sealed away, the walls rebuilding themselves brick by brick before my eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching my pen move across the paper.
"Adding my terms," I said without looking up. "I want guaranteed time to visit my father. Weekly. And I want to volunteer at the children's hospital. Three days a week."
"That wasn't part of our arrangement."
I slid the paper back to him, meeting his gaze steadily. "It is now. Unless you'd prefer I walk out that door and find another billionaire to marry."
For a moment, I thought he might throw me out. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to transform his face for a split second.
"You're not what I expected," he said, signing the amended contract.
"Neither are you." I signed my name next to his. "What about you? What do you need?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Something shifted in his expression—a flash of vulnerability quickly masked. His eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, they were naked with longing. "What I need isn't something you can provide. Don't expect love, Lyra. This is business."
As Finnegan led me away, I thought: *Great. I've traded one prison for another. But at least this one had a swimming pool.*
But as I glanced back at Thorne, I couldn't help wondering which of us was truly more trapped.
