My stepmother forced me to marry a wealthy man – one who, everyone said, could no longer walk.
On our wedding night, I tried to carry him to bed. But as I lifted him, I slipped and we both crashed to the floor. That’s when I noticed something impossible… something moving beneath me.
My mother was always a practical, calculating woman.
She used to say, “A poor husband means a lifetime of suffering. Love won’t fill your stomach, but money might.”
I thought it was just advice until she made it my reality.
After my father’s passing, he left behind a pile of debts. My mother found a way out: by marrying me off to a crippled but rich man named Huy.
“As long as you marry him,” she said coldly, “we can keep the house. Otherwise, we’ll lose everything.”
I had no choice. I bit my lip and agreed.
On the wedding day, I wore a white dress and a hollow smile. The groom sat silently in his wheelchair, face expressionless, eyes distant and cold.
That night, I opened the bedroom door. The air was heavy with silence. Huy sat under the dim light, his sharp features softened by the glow.
“I… I’ll help you to bed,” I muttered.
He shot me a glance and said flatly, “No need. I can manage.”
But when he tried to move, the chair wobbled and he nearly fell. Instinct took over – I rushed forward to catch him.
We both slipped, collapsing to the ground with a thud. I landed right on top of him.
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