After I Saved My Boyfriend, He Chose My Half-Sister

The next morning, Titus West was already by the parallel bars at seven sharp.

"You're in my spot," I said, wheeling up to the platform.

He didn't turn around. His broad shoulders were tense in a clean black tee. "The gym belongs to the clinic, Stewart. Not you."

"You came at eight yesterday."

"Coincidence." He reached out, grabbed the metal, and hoisted himself up. His knuckles went white. "Try to keep up today. Or at least fall on the other mat."

"Don't worry about me, West. Worry about your own knees."

That was how it started.

Every single morning, we met at the bars. We never asked about each other's past. We didn't talk about the wrecks that put us in these chairs. Instead, we traded insults.

"Four seconds, Stewart?" he’d mock, his dark eyes locked on mine as sweat dripped off his jaw. "My grandmother stands longer when she checks the mail."

"Shut up and count to five," I snapped back, digging my fingers into the cold steel. My legs burned like hot coals, but I held on until my vision went gray.

When he managed three trembling steps, I pushed myself to do four. When my arms gave out and I hit the mat, he didn't offer a hand. He just sat in his matte-black chair, tapped his watch, and said, "Two minutes of rest. Then get back up."

It was brutal. It was ruthless.

And it was the only real thing in my life. In a world full of fake smiles and pitying glances, Titus looked at me like a fighter who refused to die. The hate kept us moving. The rivalry kept us alive.

Then Ryleigh Gilbert decided to make me her project.

Ryleigh was a socialite with rich parents and a bad habit of chasing internet clout. She had minor arthroscopic knee surgery—a routine procedure—but she milked it like a near-death experience. She wheeled around the halls with a pink silk headband and a custom IV stand covered in fake rhinestones. Her phone was constantly on a tripod, recording tearful updates for her followers.

She figured out who I was by the end of my first month.

"Oh, sweetie," she purred one afternoon in the physical therapy room. She leaned on her bedazzled stand, smiling with too many teeth. "You're Coraline Stewart, right? Jasper Henderson’s ex?"

I ignored her and adjusted the strap on my knee brace.

"I saw Jasper at Nobu on Page Six last night," she went on, loud enough for Julian and the other patients to hear. "With Lilah Patel. She looks so much like you, only... whole. So gorgeous. You must be so happy for him."

I kept my eyes on my strap. "Walk away, Ryleigh."

She didn't stop. She started hovering near the gym doors during my hardest sessions.

One Tuesday, my left leg buckled on the parallel bars. I crashed hard onto my hip. The breath rushed out of me in a ragged gasp.

Through the blur of pain, I saw a reflection in the gym mirror. Ryleigh was standing just outside the glass doors, holding her gold iPhone at chest level, lens aimed right at me.

She wanted clips of Jasper Henderson's "crippled ex" hitting the dirt. She wanted gossip blogs to eat it alive. Later that day, I heard her whispering by the nurses' station, laughing about the "charity case who got dumped because she couldn't keep her man."

The fire in my gut burned hotter. I didn't cry. I just gritted my teeth and told Julian to add another ten pounds to my leg press.

Two days later, it ended.

It was three in the afternoon. The main common room was crowded with recovering patients, doctors, and visitors. Sunlight poured through the tall windows. I sat near the coffee bar in my wheelchair, an ice pack resting on my swollen left knee.

Ryleigh strutted in with two of her friends, pushing her sparkling IV stand like a designer handbag.

She stopped right next to my table. She tilted her head, looked down at my ice pack, and smiled a vicious, fake little smile.

"Some women just aren't built to keep a man, are they?" she said loudly.

The room went completely silent. Two nurses stopped talking. Her friends smirked.

Before I could open my mouth, a loud, heavy *whir* cut through the quiet.

No one had time to react.

Titus came out of nowhere. His matte-black wheelchair tore across the polished hardwood floor at full speed.

*BAM.*

Titus rammed his metal footplates directly into the base of Ryleigh’s rhinestone IV stand.

The impact was deafening. The stand tipped instantly. The glass vase on the side table flipped, smashing into a hundred jagged pieces against the tile. Two bottles of sparkling water exploded. Pink peonies, cold water, and broken glass scattered everywhere, splashing across Ryleigh's designer slippers.

Ryleigh shrieked, jumping back and grabbing her chest. "Are you insane?!"

Titus didn't blink. He spun his wheels forward, stopping two inches from her face.

His broad frame towered over her, even from his chair. His dark eyes were cold enough to freeze blood. When he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, but it carried to every corner of the room.

"Talk to her again and I'll buy your family's debt," Titus said. Every word was flat. Dangerous. Certain. "All of it. And I'll call it in on a Monday morning."

Ryleigh’s mouth fell open. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her completely chalk-white. She knew who he was. Everyone in Manhattan knew what Titus West could do to a family’s fortune before breakfast.

Her throat bobbed. She didn't say a single word. She grabbed her dripping hem, turned on her heel, and hurried down the hall, leaving her broken stand behind.

The room stayed dead quiet.

Titus slowly turned his chair toward me. He looked at my ice pack, then up at my face.

His jaw relaxed just a fraction.

"She was loud," he muttered, adjusting his sleeve. "I hate loud people."

He didn't wait for a thank you. He just pushed his wheels and headed back toward the gym.

I sat there, watching his wide back disappear through the double doors.

For five years, Jasper had let his friends talk over me. My parents had told me to stay quiet and endure.

Nobody had ever fought for me.

Until now.