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.
And then, I froze.
His legs… weren’t weak. They were firm, alive, responding to my touch.
“You—You can walk?” I gasped.
Huy looked straight at me, calm as still water.
“Now you know,” he said softly.
I stepped back, heart pounding. “You pretended to be disabled? Why?”
He gave a bitter smile.
“Because I wanted to see if anyone would love me for who I am, not for my money. Three women before you ran away as soon as they saw the wheelchair. They all said they loved me, but none of them stayed.”
His eyes turned cold again.
“Your mother came to me,” he continued quietly.
“She said she’d sell her daughter to pay her debts. I agreed, just to see if you were any different.”
The words pierced straight through me. I didn’t know whether to be furious, guilty, or simply broken.
That night, he said nothing else. I stayed awake until morning, tears falling silently onto my pillow.
The next day, he asked the maid to wheel him out.
I whispered, “If you wanted revenge on my mother, you’ve had it. But please, don’t hate me. I never asked to be part of this.”
He didn’t reply, just paused briefly before leaving.
Days turned into weeks. The mansion felt like a frozen palace. He buried himself in work, speaking to no one. Strangely, he still acted crippled in front of others.
One evening, I overheard a phone call.
“Doctor, please keep this a secret,” he said. “If my family finds out I’ve recovered, they’ll force me to sign everything over to them.”
That’s when I finally understood.
He wasn’t just testing me that he was hiding from those who wanted to destroy him. His father had passed away young, leaving behind a greedy stepmother and stepbrother hungry for his inheritance.
After that, I started quietly helping him. I cooked small meals and left them outside his room every night. Once, I found the plates empty which he’d eaten. Another time, I caught him practicing walking under the moonlight. I pretended not to see.
Then one morning, I overheard his stepmother whispering on the phone: “If he regains his health, we lose everything. We must make sure he stays paralyzed forever.”
That night, I slipped a letter under his pillow:
‘If you trust me, don’t come home tomorrow. Someone’s planning something.’
The next morning, he left for a “business trip.” That very night, the villa caught fire starting from his room. The maid screamed, “The master’s room is burning!”
If he had been there, he would’ve di:ed.
The investigation revealed the wires were cut intentionally. His stepmother was arres:ted.
Amid the flashing police lights, Huy turned to me – no chair, no mask and smiled, truly smiled, for the first time.
“So it’s true,” he said softly.
“You’re the only one who didn’t want anything from me.”
He stepped closer, steady on his feet, and took my hand.
“Thank you for saving me, and for staying even after knowing my lie.”
I looked up at him and whispered, “Maybe fate made me fall… just so I could see who you really are.”
A year later, we stood together again at the altar and this time without secrets, debts, or pain.
He walked toward me, tall and strong, every step a promise.
My mother wept quietly in the front row, but I only smiled.
Because this time, I wasn’t marrying for money. I was marrying for love.