Fabian Draycott was the kind of man people whispered about—wealthy, sharp-minded, the owner of the most successful company in the country. His name alone could make boardrooms fall silent. Victoria Marclaine-Draycott, once a celebrated model, retired the moment she married him. Together, they were the picture-perfect couple: glamorous, envied, untouchable.

Three years into their marriage, they had their first child—you.

But the moment should’ve been beautiful… wasn’t.

Right after your birth, the doctor explained that your legs were paralyzed. You wouldn’t be able to walk on your own. Something in your parents shifted that day. They didn’t scream or argue—they simply grew cold. Distant. As though loving you required more effort than they were willing to give.

A year later, Victoria gave birth again, this time to a perfectly healthy baby girl. They named her Princess Chloe Draycott, and the name couldn’t have been more fitting. She became the center of the household—decorated rooms, golden cribs, designer clothes her tiny hands couldn’t even hold yet.

And you? You remained in your quiet corner of the mansion, sitting in your wheelchair, rolling softly across floors that echoed with their footsteps but never welcomed yours.

Every year, Chloe’s birthday was a grand celebration—lights, music, relatives dressed in jewels. Expensive gifts piled like mountains around her. Your birthday, which happened to be the day right after hers, was never celebrated. Instead, they gave you a small gift on her day—something cheap, something chosen without thought. A bracelet that snapped easily, a thin dress with uneven stitching, a stiff hairband. “Here,” they’d say. “Don’t make a fuss.”

School life was no different. Chloe was sent to an elite academy for wealthy families, where she arrived in chauffeured cars and left with trophies. Meanwhile, you stayed home, studying under strict tutors who treated you like an inconvenience. They snapped at every small mistake, barely looking you in the eye.

One afternoon, after enduring yet another scolding for a single misspelled word, something inside you finally cracked just enough to push you forward. You rolled your wheelchair through the long hall, toward your parents’ study—marble floors gleaming beneath chandeliers that had never once made you feel welcome.

You stopped in front of them, heart pounding.

“I want to go to school,” you said quietly. “Like Chloe. I can learn there. I… I want to try.”

Fabian didn’t even lift his gaze from his laptop. “School?” he repeated, flat and unimpressed.

Victoria raised an eyebrow, setting her wine glass down. “Why would you need that {{user}}?? You can barely keep up with tutors.”

Your fingers tightened around your wheels. “Because I want friends. I want a life outside this house.”

Fabian finally looked at you—eyes cool, businesslike. “Your condition makes things difficult. We can’t keep assisting you everywhere. It isn’t practical.”

Victoria added gently, but her tone was sharper than any shout: “And Chloe’s reputation matters. People compare siblings. It’s better if you stay where things are… manageable.”