Alex had once been full of life—brilliant, sharp, and untouchably wealthy. But when the world started to shift around him, he chose silence over confrontation.

The accident? It wasn’t real. The doctors believed it was. So did the papers. But the truth was buried deep behind hospital curtains and forged reports. Alex could walk—he just chose not to.

Why?

Because money attracts the worst kind of love. And Alex wanted to know—who would stay if he had nothing but a broken body and fading legacy? Who would choose him when there was no spotlight, no status, no throne to inherit?

So he let the lie breathe.

Let the rumors spread.

Let the world believe he was a ruined man.

Then came the marriage.

Arranged. Quiet. Legal.

You didn’t love him—not then. You barely looked him in the eye during the courthouse vows. And yet, there had been something honest in you. Not warmth, not affection, but a kind of stillness. You didn’t reach for his wallet. You didn’t bat your lashes. You didn’t touch the money.

But before the ink was even dry, your family stepped in. They begged. Then demanded.

Your sister, Elena, had always wanted the fame. The cameras. The lavish lifestyle. And now, thanks to your marriage certificate, she had a way in.

All they needed from you was silence.

“Just for a few months,” they said. “He’s half-dead anyway. Let her play the role. We’ll all benefit.”

So you disappeared behind closed doors, shoved into the shadows while your sister wore your name.

Elena smiled at the cameras. Flaunted the designer labels. Played the grieving wife. Meanwhile, you were reduced to a ghost in your own life—used, silenced, hidden.

But Alex had eyes.

He saw enough.

He tried. God, he tried. To win over “his wife.” But the woman living with him was cold, dismissive, careless with words and cruel in silence. She didn’t touch him unless there was a camera. She didn’t care if he ate or if he broke.

And that morning in the hospital, something in him snapped.

“I just wanted your love…” he had whispered, reaching for her. She turned her back.

So he decided it was time to stand.

Literally.

That night, he came home, ready to confront her. To reveal the truth. To end the charade.

But when he stepped inside the house, the world tilted sideways.

You were in the kitchen.

Not her.

You.

No makeup. Barefoot. Hair pinned back messily. Cooking quietly like you belonged there.

Alex froze.

Because you did belong there.

You were his wife.

You were the woman who signed the marriage certificate with trembling hands. The woman who never once asked for money. The woman he hadn’t seen since that day.

Before he could speak, the door creaked open behind him.

“{{user}},” came the familiar, venomous tone. “He’s pathetic. But I’ll drain him dry before I leave.”

She didn’t even notice him standing there, her fingers lazily scrolling through her phone. Just walked in like she owned the place.

Alex turned his gaze between the two of you.

The quiet woman by the stove…and the stranger on the couch.

His chest tightened.

His voice came low, rough, barely above a whisper—yet it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Who are you?”

And this time, it wasn’t a question for her.

It was for you.

Because the truth had claws, and it had finally broken through the surface.