My Crippled Husband Is a Secret Billionaire

When Stella dragged her suitcases into the townhouse foyer, she felt like a soldier returning from the front lines.

Julian was in the library again. He was typing furiously on a laptop. As soon as she entered, he slammed the lid shut.

"I got my stuff," Stella said, dropping her keys on the desk. "And I saw him. He saw the papers."

Julian looked at her. He saw the redness around her wrist where Bryce had grabbed her. His eyes darkened, shifting from gray to black.

"Good," was all he said.

He slid a thick cream envelope across the desk.

"We have a dinner invitation."

Stella opened it. The calligraphy was elegant. The Dalton Family Annual Charity Gala.

"They want to humiliate us," Stella said, reading the date. "It's tonight. Why would they invite us now?"

"They didn't," Julian said calmly. "This was sent to the 'Sterling Family' weeks ago. My stepmother forwarded it to me via courier an hour ago. She wants me to go and embarrass myself so she can further the argument that I'm incompetent. And the Daltons want to see the wreckage."

"If we don't go, we look weak," Stella realized.

"Precisely."

"I have nothing to wear," Stella said, gesturing to her suitcase. "My clothes are... not gala appropriate. And the creditors?"

"The creditors can't touch Trust assets," Julian lied smoothly. He pressed a button under his desk. Henderson appeared instantly, carrying a garment bag.

"My mother left some vintage pieces in storage," Julian explained. "Legally, they belong to the Trust, so I can't sell them to pay for anything, but you can wear them. Alter them if you need to."

Stella unzipped the bag. Inside was a black vintage Chanel gown. It was timeless, elegant, and reeked of old money.

Scene Jump: The Plaza Hotel Ballroom.

The camera flashes were blinding.

Stella stepped out of the car—Henderson had rented a Lincoln again—and unfolded Julian's wheelchair. She helped him transfer.

She wore the black dress. It fit her like a second skin. She had pulled her hair back into a severe bun, wearing no jewelry except the cheap wedding band. She looked like a avenging angel.

She pushed Julian onto the red carpet.

A hush fell over the crowd. The "Cursed Son" and the "Runaway Bride." It was the scandal of the decade.

Monica was standing near the entrance, wearing a flashy, sequined gold dress from the new season. It looked cheap next to Stella's vintage Chanel. Bryce stood behind her, holding a glass of scotch.

They approached.

"Stella!" Monica squealed, her smile tight and fake. "I thought you'd be hiding in a hole somewhere."

Bryce looked at Julian with open contempt. "Nice wheels, Sterling. Need a push?"

The people nearby giggled nervously.

Julian didn't flinch. He looked up at Bryce, his expression bored.

"I have my wife for that," Julian drawled. "Who do you have, Bryce? The bank?"

The giggle turned into genuine laughter from the crowd. Bryce flushed a deep, ugly red.

Monica's eyes narrowed. She took a step forward, stumbling slightly on her stilettos. Her champagne glass tipped.

It wasn't an accident. Stella saw the wrist flick. The liquid arched through the air, aiming straight for Stella's dress.

Julian saw it coming. He couldn't use his legs to dodge, and spinning the chair with perfect precision would reveal too much core strength.

Instead, he released the brake on the right wheel and threw his weight awkwardly to the side. The wheelchair lurched forward with a metallic clatter, cutting off Stella's path.

The champagne splashed across his tuxedo jacket, soaking the shoulder, instead of hitting Stella's silk gown.

"Oh!" Stella gasped, grabbing the handles to steady the chair. "Julian! Are you okay?"

Julian stopped the chair, looking ruffled but composed. His eyes were icy shards as he looked at Monica.

"Henderson," Julian said, his voice carrying over the sudden silence. "Send the bill for the dry cleaning to Mr. Dalton."

He looked at his shoulder, then at Stella. His voice softened. "Did it hit the dress?"

"No," Stella whispered. "You blocked it."

"Clumsy driving," Julian muttered. "My apologies."

Stella turned to Monica. She stepped out from behind the wheelchair.

"You always were sloppy, Monica," Stella said, her voice cutting through the room. "With your drinks, and with your men."

She grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. "Let's go, darling. The air here smells like desperation."

She wheeled him away. The crowd parted, making a wide path for them.

They found a quiet corner near the balcony. Julian looked up at her. There was a new expression in his eyes. Respect.

"You have claws," he said.

"I learned from the best," Stella replied, her hands still shaking slightly on the handles.

Julian's phone buzzed in his wet pocket. He checked it discreetly.

Nate: Nice block. Looked accidental enough. You just declared war on the Daltons. Fun.

Julian smirked.