After marrying that vegetative billionaire CEO

The first flash went off before my foot touched the red carpet.

Then a hundred more.

"Olivia! Over here! How does it feel to marry a man who can't say 'I do'?"

"Is it true the Marlowes sold you for forty million?"

I kept my chin up. My dress was ivory silk, simple, chosen by a stylist I'd met for ten minutes. No veil. No bouquet. Nobody had thought to order flowers.

Inside the hall, the guests didn't bother lowering their voices.

"Gold digger," a woman in pearls murmured as I passed. "Look at her. Not even crying."

"Why would she cry? She just hit the jackpot."

A man near the aisle laughed into his champagne. "I'll give her a month. Two thousand says she cleans out the accounts and runs."

"A month? Generous. I'm betting two weeks."

My knees wanted to buckle. I locked them.

Then a cool, dry hand slid into mine.

"Walk with me, dear."

Eleanor Sterling was eighty-one and barely came up to my shoulder. Her silver hair was pinned tight, and she held a black cane topped with a jade handle. When she moved, the whole room went silent.

She didn't lead me to the altar right away. She stopped beside the man with the champagne.

"Mr. Pryce." Her voice was soft. Somehow that made it worse. "Two weeks, was it?"

His face went the color of skim milk. "Mrs. Sterling, I was only joking—"

"Olivia is my grandson's wife." She raised her eyes and swept them across every row. "Anyone who insults her insults me. And I have a very long memory."

Nobody breathed.

She patted my hand like we were out for a stroll. "Shall we?"

---

There was no groom at the altar. Only a framed photograph of Neon on an easel, and a lawyer with a pen.

I signed my name under his. *Olivia Marlowe Sterling.* The ink looked too dark.

Afterward, Eleanor walked me down a long hallway in the east wing and opened a white door.

I stopped on the threshold.

A workbench. A jeweler's saw, files, a polishing wheel. Drawers labeled by gemstone. A window facing the garden, where the light came in clean and even. The kind of light you need to judge a diamond's color.

"This is—" My throat closed. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you have a gift, and gifts should not rot." Eleanor leaned on her cane. "I know what this marriage looks like, Olivia. A trade. A cage."

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be." She touched my cheek. Her fingers smelled like lavender. "As long as you want it, there will always be a place for you in this family."

I'd spent twenty-four years waiting for my own father to say something like that.

I didn't trust myself to answer. So I nodded.

---

The family dinner ended any illusion of warmth.

Twelve people sat at a table built for thirty. Eleanor at the head. Me at her right, in the chair that should have been Neon's.

Across from me sat his uncle. Richard Sterling. Same first name as my father. Same habit of smiling without his eyes.

"So." He cut into his steak. "Olivia. Tell us about yourself. Besides your excellent timing."

"My timing?"

"A family on the edge of bankruptcy. A wealthy heir who can't object." He chewed slowly. "Some might call that luck. Others might call it strategy."

"Richard," Eleanor said.

"I'm only making conversation, Mother."

A young woman with platinum hair leaned forward, her bracelets jangling. Chloe, his daughter. Neon's cousin. She'd been staring at me since the soup.

"I have a question," she said brightly. "Have you bought your black dress yet?"

The table went quiet.

"Excuse me?"

"For the funeral." Chloe tilted her head. "The doctors say his body is shutting down. Six months, maybe less. I just wondered if you're ready to be a widow. You'd look good in black. Very tragic."

Someone snickered. Someone else coughed to cover it.

Eleanor's knuckles whitened on her fork.

I set down my napkin. My pulse pounded in my ears, but my voice came out level.

"I'm not ready to bury a man I've never spoken to, Chloe. Are you?"

Her smile flickered.

"Because you sound like you've been planning his funeral for a while," I went on. "Did you pick the flowers, too? Somebody should. Nobody bothered for the wedding."

Richard's knife stopped moving.

Eleanor made a small sound. It took me a second to realize she was laughing.

"Well," she said, dabbing her lips. "It seems my grandson has married someone with teeth."

Dinner limped on. Nobody else asked me anything.

But I watched them. The way Richard's eyes slid to the family lawyer every time someone mentioned Neon's condition. The way Chloe's mother kept asking about "the trust" and "the board vote." The way the cousin at the end of the table checked his phone whenever the word *hospital* came up.

By dessert, I understood.

Neon's accident hadn't broken this family's heart. It had opened a door. If he died, the Sterling fortune would be split up again.

Every person at this table was waiting for him to stop breathing.

---

His room was at the end of the west wing. Machines hummed softly. A monitor traced his heartbeat in green.

Neon looked different from the photograph. Thinner. Paler. But his face was still striking, even with the breathing tube taped at the corner of his mouth. Dark lashes. A small scar through his left eyebrow.

I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat.

"Hi," I said. Then I felt stupid. "I'm your wife, apparently."

The monitor beeped.

"Your family's lovely, by the way." I rubbed my temples. "Your cousin asked if I had a funeral dress. Your uncle thinks I'm a con artist. I think half of them are counting the days."

I studied his still hands on the white sheet. Long fingers. A pianist's hands, or a jeweler's.

"My sister slept with my boyfriend on Tuesday," I told him. "My father sold me on Wednesday. And today I married you." A short laugh escaped me. "We're quite a pair. Both of us just lying here while other people decide what we're worth."

The machine sighed air into his lungs.

I leaned closer.

"Don't worry. I'm not here to take anything from you. Not your money. Not your company." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want to live like a person again. That's all."

His blanket had slipped off one shoulder. I reached over and tugged it up, tucking the edge beneath his arm the way Mom used to do for me.

My fingertips brushed the back of his hand.

And his index finger moved.

Just slightly. A twitch against my skin.

I froze.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm. His face hadn't changed. His eyes stayed shut.

"Neon?" I whispered.

Nothing.

I stared at his hand until my eyes burned. I told myself it was a reflex. The doctors said that happened. Muscles fire on their own.

Then, from the dark hallway behind me, came the soft click of a door closing.

Someone had been standing there.

Someone had been watching.