Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Paralyzed Husband

The screen of the phone lit up for the fifth time in two minutes. 8:15 PM.

Clarice Bell stared at the numbers until they blurred. Forty-five minutes. He was forty-five minutes late.

She sat alone at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou. The restaurant hummed with the low, expensive sound of crystal clinking against china and the murmur of people who didn't have to look at prices. Clarice smoothed the napkin over her lap again. Her palms were damp.

A waiter approached. He had the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Would you like some sparkling water while you wait, miss?"

Clarice simply shook her head, offering a tight, dismissive smile in return. She pointed to the existing glass of tap water, a silent indication that she needed nothing more. He'll be here soon.

Clarice placed her hand over the small gift box on the table. It was wrapped in blue paper she had bought at a drugstore. Inside was a watch. It wasn't a Rolex, but it had cost her two months of savings. It was for their three-year anniversary.

The heavy oak doors at the front of the restaurant swung open.

Clarice felt her heart jump into her throat. She stood up, her chair scraping slightly against the floor.

Gavin Mercer walked in.

He looked different. His suit was sharper than the ones he used to wear when they studied together in the cramped library carrels. His hair was styled back. He looked like money.

He didn't look at her.

He turned back toward the door and held it open. His hand lingered on the brass handle, a gesture of care she hadn't seen in months.

A woman walked in under the shelter of his arm.

She was blonde, polished, and wearing a Chanel dress that probably cost more than Clarice's entire apartment. But it was the way Gavin's hand settled on the small of her back that made the air leave Clarice's lungs.

The woman's hand rested protectively over a small, barely visible bump in her stomach.

Clarice stood frozen. Her legs felt like they were filled with lead.

Gavin finally looked up. His eyes scanned the room, found Clarice, and for a second, there was panic. Then, it hardened into something cold. Something resolved.

He guided the woman toward Clarice's table.

They didn't stop. They didn't hesitate. Gavin pulled out a chair for the woman-Tiffany, he had mentioned a Tiffany from work before-and sat her down across from Clarice.

There were no hugs. No "sorry I'm late." Just a suffocating silence.

Tiffany took off her sunglasses. She looked Clarice up and down, her gaze lingering on the off-brand polyester dress Clarice wore. She let out a small, sharp breath through her nose. A laugh.

Clarice felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at Gavin.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked from Gavin's cold face to Tiffany's mocking smirk, her question dying in her throat. Her silence was a wall he could hide behind.

Gavin wouldn't meet her eyes. He adjusted his cufflinks.

"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée."

The world tilted. A high-pitched ringing started in Clarice's ears.

Fiancée? Clarice's hand trembled, gripping the edge of the table. Her mind raced, replaying conversations. Three years. You told me you were busy with the merger. You told me... The words were a silent scream in her head.

"Oh, honey," Tiffany interrupted. Her voice was sweet, like poisoned syrup. "Three years? That's cute. But let's be real. Look at you. You can't help him. You can't give him the connections he needs. Gavin is going places."

Clarice looked at Gavin, begging him with her eyes to deny it. Begging him to say this was a sick joke.

Her gaze was a physical force, pleading, questioning.

He finally looked at her. His face was blank.

"It's over, Clarice. It's been over for a while. You just didn't want to see it."

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a checkbook.

The sound of the pen scratching against the paper was the loudest thing in the room. Scritch. Scratch. Tear.

He slid the check across the white tablecloth. It stopped right next to the cheap blue gift box.

Clarice looked down. Ten thousand dollars.

"Consider it severance," Gavin said. "For the time. Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress."

Clarice stared at the check. She felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. She looked around. People at nearby tables were watching. They were whispering. She was the entertainment.

She was the joke.

Clarice reached out. Her hand wasn't shaking anymore.

Gavin let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. He thought she was taking it. He thought she was bought.

Clarice picked up the check. She held it between two fingers, her expression unreadable.

Then, with a calm, deliberate motion, she slid it back across the table. She didn't tear it. She didn't crumple it. She simply returned it, an act of refusal so quiet it was louder than any shout. Her eyes met his, cold and final.

Gavin's jaw dropped.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his composure cracking. "Take it."

Clarice's gaze was unwavering. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head. The message was clear: Your money is an insult, and I don't accept insults.

She grabbed her purse and the blue box. She didn't look back at Tiffany, who was gasping in mock horror.

Clarice turned and walked toward the door. She held her head high until she pushed through the heavy wood and stepped out onto the street.

The moment the cold night air hit her face, the dam broke.