Reborn To The Wife of a Billionaire with Disabilities

The second the call connected, a shrill scream filled the Maybach's cabin.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" Gwen's voice was so loud the phone's speaker crackled. "Do you know what you've done? You were photographed in a hotel stairwell! A stairwell, Eileen!"

Eileen winced. She picked the phone up by the edges and moved it a few inches away from her knee, trying to save her eardrums.

She glanced sideways.

Carlisle was leaning back against the plush leather seat. His hands were steepled over his stomach. He was staring at the phone with a predatory stillness, waiting for her to break down, waiting for the tears and the frantic, stupid excuses she always made.

Eileen waited for Gwen to pause for a breath.

"Gwen," Eileen said. Her voice was completely flat. It held zero inflection. "Take a breath. Shut your mouth. And listen to me."

A sharp intake of air hissed through the speaker. The aggressive, high-powered manager was stunned into silence by the sheer authority in Eileen's tone.

"The photos are garbage," Eileen stated, her words clipped and precise. "They show a blurry back and a dark corner. There is no facial recognition. There is no hard proof."

"The internet doesn't need hard proof!" Gwen snapped back, recovering her panic. "If we don't issue a statement in the next ten minutes, the sponsors are going to pull your contracts. The studio will recast your role!"

"If we issue a statement, we validate the rumor," Eileen countered instantly. "People will tear apart every word, looking for guilt. It makes us look desperate."

"So what do we do? Just bleed out?"

"We freeze it," Eileen commanded. "Total blackout. Turn off the comment sections on all my social media accounts immediately. Do not answer calls from any media outlets. You are unreachable."

Carlisle's steepled fingers twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Second," Eileen continued, her brain working at lightning speed. A fragment of the original Eileen's petty gossip collection surfaced in her mind. Seraphina. The director. Of course. She smirked. "Call the PR team. Tell them to dig into Seraphina's files. I know she's been having an affair with her director. Leak it. Buy the trending spots. Bury my name under hers."

The cabin was dead silent except for the hum of the tires.

Carlisle's gaze shifted from the phone to Eileen's face. His jaw unclenched. The woman sitting next to him was executing a flawless, ruthless crisis management strategy. It was textbook diversion and suppression.

Gwen was quiet for a long ten seconds.

"Fine," the manager finally said, her voice tight but compliant. "Where are you right now? Do I need to send a secure car?"

Eileen turned her head. She looked directly into Carlisle's icy eyes.

"No," Eileen said into the phone, holding his gaze. "I'm with my husband. We are on our way home."

"You're with-what?!" Gwen gasped.

Eileen pressed her thumb down on the red icon. The call ended.

She held the power button until the screen went black, then tossed the phone into her leather handbag. She leaned back against the headrest and let out a long, slow exhale.

"What game are you playing?"

Carlisle's voice was a low rumble in the quiet car. It was thick with suspicion.

Eileen rolled her head on the headrest to look at him. His face was a perfect, emotionless mask, but the tension in his neck betrayed him.

She smiled. It was a bright, genuine curve of her lips.

"I died once," she said softly. "I woke up and realized being a vain, stupid girl wasn't worth the energy. I decided to use my brain."

The words 'died once' made Carlisle's eyelids flutter. A strange, heavy weight settled in his chest. He heard the exhaustion beneath her words, a kind of ancient fatigue that didn't belong to a twenty-four-year-old actress.

Eileen didn't elaborate.

Her eyes drifted down. She noticed the air conditioning vents pointing toward the back seat. The air blowing out was crisp and cool. Carlisle was wearing a wool suit, but his legs were motionless. Paralyzed limbs couldn't regulate temperature.

Eileen leaned forward, her leather shoes pressing into the floor mats.

She reached into the storage compartment behind the passenger seat. Her fingers brushed against a folded cashmere blanket. She pulled it out.

Carlisle watched her every move, his body tensing, ready to reject whatever she was doing.

Eileen shook the blanket out with a quick snap of her wrists. Without asking, without hesitating, she draped the soft cashmere over his thighs and knees. She tucked the edges in slightly to trap the heat.

Carlisle's hands jerked upward, a reflex to push her away.

But Eileen was already retreating. She slid back into her seat, her hands resting quietly in her lap. She didn't linger. She didn't look for gratitude.

Carlisle stared at the blanket covering his dead legs. His fingers curled inward, hovering an inch above the fabric. He slowly lowered his hands, letting them rest on the cashmere. He didn't throw it off.

The Maybach glided out of the city traffic.

The concrete skyline gave way to towering palm trees and lush, manicured hedges. The car slowed down as it approached a massive set of wrought-iron gates. The gold crest of the Vinson family gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The security guards snapped to attention and the gates swung open silently.

The car rolled up the long, winding driveway, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. The sprawling, classical architecture of the Bel Air estate loomed ahead.

The car came to a smooth stop under the grand portico.

Mr. Ainsworth stepped out of the front seat immediately. He walked around to the back and pulled the heavy door open, bowing his head slightly.

"We have arrived, sir. Madam."