Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Paralyzed Husband

The room smelled like floor wax and old paper. The clerk droned on, his voice monotone.

"Do you, Clarice Bell, take this man..."

Clarice looked at the stranger sitting in the wheelchair next to her. He was tall, dark, and terrifyingly quiet.

She thought of Gavin's face when he'd slid the check to her. She thought of her looming eviction and the grant deadline that could change the world.

She nodded firmly. Her "I do" was a silent, resolute gesture.

"And do you, Colton Bentley..."

"I do." His voice was low, devoid of emotion. It sounded like a verdict.

"Rings?" the clerk asked.

Clarice froze. She hadn't even thought about rings. This was a transaction.

Colton reached into his pocket. He pulled out a simple platinum band. It looked plain, but the metal caught the light with an understated gleam.

"My mother's," Colton lied smoothly. "I carry it for luck."

He reached out. Clarice lifted her hand.

He didn't fumble. He found her finger instantly, sliding the cold metal over her knuckle.

It fit perfectly.

Clarice stared at it. She glanced at his large hands, then back at her own, a silent question in her eyes. How?

"I estimated," Colton said. "When you caught me earlier."

The clerk stamped the paper. "By the power vested in me... you are married."

There was no kiss. Colton just nodded. He offered his hand, and Clarice shook it. A business deal concluded.

They exited into the cool night air. Clarice held the marriage certificate.

Colton Bentley.

The name tickled the back of her brain. Bentley Media? No. That family lived in penthouses and on yachts. They didn't arrange sham marriages with orphans in City Hall at 10 PM.

"Where to?" Clarice typed, showing the phone to Sterling. "My apartment to get my things?"

Colton paled, a flicker of an expression she couldn't read. "No. We go to my residence. Sterling will have your belongings collected and delivered tomorrow. Clean slate."

Clarice hesitated, then nodded. A clean slate sounded good. It sounded safe.

Colton raised his hand. The black Maybach pulled up to the curb instantly.

The driver, a large man with a shaved head, stepped out. He wore a simple polo shirt.

Clarice recognized him from the coffee shop. This wasn't an Uber.

"This is Ford, my head of security," Colton said. "He'll be your driver as well."

He wheeled himself into the car.

As Clarice got in, her phone dinged. A news alert from a financial app she followed.

"Bentley Media stock soars as reclusive heir, Colton Bentley, is rumored to be taking steps to unlock his controlling shares from the family trust..."

The article featured a blurry paparazzi photo of a man in a wheelchair, wearing sunglasses, being pushed by a man in a gray suit. It was from an hour ago. Outside The Grind.

The shrill voice of the news alert filled the quiet luxury of the car.

Clarice scrambled to mute it, her face burning with shame.

She looked at Colton, then at the phone, then back at Colton. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.

Colton sat staring straight ahead. His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on his knee.

He didn't say a word, but the temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.