Substitute Marriage: Marrying The Disabled Billionaire

Chrissy forced her stiff muscles to move. She turned around slowly.

Mitch was already pushing Arch out of the shadows of the lobby and toward the heavy glass exit doors.

Chrissy followed them outside.

The brutal midday Los Angeles sun hit them immediately. Arch frowned, the harsh light clearly irritating him. He reached into his breast pocket and slid a pair of dark, thick-framed sunglasses over his eyes, masking his expression completely.

Parked illegally at the curb was a massive, extended-wheelbase black Maybach.

The driver, a man named Ray, stood at attention by the open rear door.

Arch didn't look at Chrissy. He stared straight ahead at the dark interior of the car.

"Miss Vega," he said, his voice dropping to a chillingly calm register. "You seem to lack a fundamental understanding of the obligations attached to this marriage."

Chrissy swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"Are you referring to the holiday family dinners?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I can coordinate my bakery schedule to attend those."

Arch let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"I didn't spend fifty million dollars to hire a part-time actress," he sneered.

He turned his head. Even behind the dark lenses, Chrissy could feel the weight of his stare pinning her to the concrete.

"I want you packed and moved into the Bel-Air estate by tonight."

Chrissy gasped. She took a panicked step backward, her heel catching on the edge of the sidewalk.

"No," she blurted out. "That wasn't in the preliminary term sheet your lawyers provided."

Her chest heaved. "We agreed to not interfere in each other's private lives. I promised I would cooperate and attend any public relations events you need. But living together-"

"The stock price of the Rush Corporation cannot afford the scandal of a separated billionaire couple," Arch cut her off, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.

He lifted his right hand and tapped his index finger against the armrest of his wheelchair.

"Or," he said softly, his voice dripping with venom, "are you simply disgusted by the thought of living under the same roof as a cripple?"

It was a trap. A vicious, psychological test designed to force her into a corner.

Chrissy clamped her jaw shut. She shoved her hands deep into her trench coat pockets, her fingernails digging painfully into her own palms.

She knew the rules of this game. If she refused him now, he could freeze the fifty million dollars before her father even had the chance to touch it. She was entirely at his mercy.

She forced her breathing to slow down. She channeled the cold, detached tone she used when dealing with difficult customers at the bakery.

"Mr. Rush," she said. "If I am required to play the role of a loving wife full-time, we need to establish clear boundaries."

She stood taller. "I will move in. But I require a separate bedroom and my own bathroom."

She paused, her cheeks flushing hot pink. "And, in private, we will not be expected to fulfill any... physical marital duties."

The corner of Arch's mouth twitched upward into a cruel, mocking smirk.

"Physical duties?" he repeated, the amusement in his voice thick and degrading. "You flatter yourself, Miss Vega."

He gestured vaguely to his motionless legs.

"Exactly what do you think a man with zero sensation below the waist is capable of doing to you?"

The words hit Chrissy like a punch to the gut.

A sharp wave of guilt washed over her. She had just accused a paralyzed man of wanting to assault her. She dropped her gaze to her scuffed shoes, her face burning with shame.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... I need my own space."

Arch's smirk vanished. His face returned to a mask of cold indifference.

"Get in the car," he ordered. "My lawyers have prepared the written contract."

Mitch stepped behind the wheelchair. With practiced efficiency, he engaged the hydraulic lift built into the Maybach, smoothly elevating Arch and the chair into the cavernous rear cabin.

Chrissy stood on the sidewalk.

She stared into the dark, tinted interior of the car. It looked like a black hole, waiting to swallow her whole.

Ray, the driver, stood patiently by the door. He extended a white-gloved hand.

"Please get in, Madam," Ray said respectfully.

The word Madam made the hairs on Chrissy's arms stand up.

She took a deep breath, ducked her head, and climbed into the back seat.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her with a solid, airtight thud.

The noise of the Los Angeles traffic was instantly cut off. The air inside the cabin was cool and thin, saturated with the sharp, intimidating scent of Arch's cedarwood cologne.

She was trapped.