You Called Me A Cripple: He Called Me His Wife

My mind went blank as I felt his fingers move against me, precise and controlled.

The intensity made my body tremble. My voice came out hoarse. "I… I don't know."

I hastily tucked my hair behind my ear, pretending to fix a stray strand, trying to hide the heat burning there.

But Damian didn't stop.

With his head lowered, he seemed completely oblivious to my flustered state. His movements remained steady, focused—like this was nothing more than a routine examination.

And somehow, that made it even more humiliating.

The room was unnaturally quiet. I thought I heard his breathing grow slightly heavier than before.

That realization sent my thoughts into disarray.

I glanced at him, my gaze slipping downward before I could stop it. The next second, I froze.

The line of his trousers had shifted, the fabric drawn into a subtle curve.

I went still.

Was I imagining it?

Or… had he reacted too?

A strange, unfamiliar sensation shot down my spine. I quickly looked away, but the feeling inside me had already slipped beyond my control.

I had almost never been touched like this.

Not even by the man who was supposed to be my husband.

On our wedding night, he had only said my health wasn't good—that the doctor had advised restraint. After that, every time I found the courage to get closer, he always had a reason to leave.

Bit by bit, I began to doubt myself… to resent those unspoken desires I couldn't get rid of.

But the more I suppressed it, the stronger it seemed to grow. Now, even during something as ordinary as a medical exam, my own sensitivity felt unfamiliar—almost frightening.

The doctor's movements continued.

Each subtle shift in pressure sent my breathing further out of rhythm. I tried to hold it in, but my body had already betrayed me.

The sensation built slowly, steadily. My chest rose and fell, heat spreading downward in a way I didn't recognize—like I was about to cross some invisible line.

And then it hit me. I was about to lose control.

In that instant, my mind went blank. I grabbed his wrist in a panic.

"W-wait…"

He finally stopped. His gaze settled on me, warm and steady.

"Relax, Miss Ashford," he said, his voice low. "You're too tense. I can't continue the examination like this."

Only then did I realize what I had just done. I quickly let go, though my fingers were still trembling.

I lowered my head, not daring to look at him, my nails digging hard into my palm.

Shame threatened to drown me.

He was a doctor.

He saw countless patients every day.

And just now, I had almost… lost myself under his hands.

I bit down hard on my lip, overwhelmed with the urge to run.

His hand pressed against my waist, adjusting my position as he resumed the examination.

A few minutes later, he finally stopped.

He removed his gloves, set the instruments aside, and jotted something down in the medical chart. His tone returned to the detached calm of a doctor.

"Based on the examination, there's nothing seriously wrong."

I hesitated. "Then why…?"

"It's mainly due to long-term imbalance in your sex life, which has affected your hormones," he said bluntly. "Once things return to a normal rhythm, it should gradually improve."

A normal sex life.

Those words struck like a sudden blow.

Four years.

Four years of marriage, and I had never once shared that kind of intimacy with my husband.

While I was still lost in thought, the doctor picked up a tube of ointment and held it out to me. "Maintain a normal level of sexual activity," he said, "and use this topical treatment alongside it."

I reached out to take it, about to say something, but my gaze drifted—unbidden—to his long, clean fingers before I quickly looked away.

"Do you know how to use it?" he asked casually. "Apply it to the vaginal area once a day."

The blunt clinical wording made heat rise to my face again.

"I know," I said quickly, nodding.

I practically fled the consultation room, pushing my wheelchair as fast as I could.

The hallway was cool, yet my entire body felt overheated.

The sensation that had been stirred awake hadn't faded. If anything, it left behind a hollow ache that was impossible to ignore.

I didn't even dare sit up straight. Keeping my head lowered, I forced myself to keep moving, slowly pushing the wheelchair forward.

For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to go home.

To return to that marriage that still looked intact on the surface.

To hold Julian, to prove that what had just happened—that loss of control—had nothing to do with a stranger.

But just as I turned the corner, pushing my wheelchair down the corridor, a familiar name suddenly reached my ears.

"Julian."

My hands froze instantly.

It was Vanessa's voice.

Something slammed hard into my chest. Slowly, I lifted my head.

And then I saw them, standing in the center of the lobby.

My husband stood there, dressed in a neat suit, his expression calm and composed.

Vanessa had her arm looped through his.

She leaned into him, her smile soft, intimate.

Standing side by side, they looked every bit like a couple deeply in love.

I stood there, frozen.

Why were they here… together?

Before I could even process it, Vanessa had already spotted me. "Miss Ashford?" she exclaimed.

Her gaze landed on my face, lingering for a second before slowly drifting downward.

Only then did I realize what I must look like—my face flushed, my breathing uneven, even my fingers still trembling.

Vanessa's smile shifted, turning knowing, almost deliberate. "Where did you just come out of?"