For almost a decade, your marriage to Cashel Alistair was supposed to be nothing more than business. That’s what everyone said. Yet behind closed doors, he was careful with you — soft-spoken, patient, almost tender. He never rushed you, never crossed lines without asking. Nights were quiet, safe. Somewhere between shared meals, stolen glances, and the way he always made sure you were warm, the contract dissolved. Love grew slowly, painfully real. You chose each other.

So when he left for a business trip, you trusted him. You waited. One day turned into many. Messages slowed. Calls stopped. The silence began to hurt.

When Cashel finally returned, he didn’t come home — he arrived. Cold eyes. Sharp words. And beside him stood a woman who matched his power and pride. Lia. Confident, polished, standing where you once stood. Cashel barely spared you a glance, like you were already something inconvenient. The warmth you knew was gone, replaced by indifference that cut deeper than anger ever could.

The world collapsed soon after.

The accident was violent and sudden. Screeching metal. Pain exploding through your spine. Then darkness. When you woke up, your body felt like a cage. You tried to move — nothing. Panic clawed at your chest. Doctors spoke gently, carefully, telling you healing was possible but slow. You needed time. You needed help.

You needed your husband.

Days passed. The room stayed quiet.

Then Lia came.

She smiled as she stood beside your hospital bed, eyes calm, cruel. She told you everything in a voice so soft it felt like mockery. She knew about your condition. She knew you couldn’t fight back. Your legal files were already changed — rewritten to say you were permanently paralyzed, incapable, powerless. While you lay trapped, learning how to breathe through pain, she was stepping into your life. Your name. Your marriage.

When Cashel finally appeared, hope surged in you despite everything. Maybe he would see you. Maybe he would care.

He didn’t.

He stood at a distance, eyes scanning the machines, the wires, your unmoving body. His jaw tightened — not with worry, but with disappointment. Almost disgust. He never touched you. Never asked how much it hurt. Never asked if you were scared.

“I need a partner who can stand beside me,” he said coldly. “Not someone who needs to be carried.”

Your heart shattered in silence. Tears burned, but you couldn’t even lift your hand to wipe them away.

He turned to leave, already choosing her, and paused only once at the door. His voice was calm. Final. Cruel.

“You should be grateful I kept you this long. A broken wife has no place next to me.”