Chapter 2

I quickly finished the noodles and picked up the plate.

Harry stared at me. "Did you really eat that all?"

"Two plates for a dollar. Nothing gets wasted." I picked the plate up and picked every noodles left, putting them in my mouth.

His fingers tapped twice against his armrest. "Clara, you don't need to put on an act to prove you're poor."

I set the empty plate down. "And you don't need to play the tough guy. I know your leg hurts."

His brows furrowed instantly. "Who told you that?"

A floating comment hovered right near his knee.

“His old injury is flaring up! The pain-relief balm is on the third shelf of the cardboard box in the corner.”

I walked over, dug through the box and pulled out the bottle of balm.

Harry reached out to block me. "Don't bother."

"If you pass out from the pain, who's going to sign our marriage certificate tomorrow?"

He hesitated, then slowly dropped his hand.

I rolled up his pant leg and hurled the balm into my palm.

A deep, faint scar stretched across his leg. As I rubbed the balm on it, his muscles clenched hard like rock.

"Tell me if it hurts."

"You seem pretty experienced at this," he muttered, his voice tight.

"My adoptive parents used to make me kneel by the outdoor sink in mid-winter. I had to rub my own joints to keep them moving."

He didn't ask another question.

I capped the bottle and put it back.

Out of nowhere, he asked, "Clara, are you here for me, or are you here because of the rumors about me?"

I looked up and met his gaze. "If it was about your past, a girl like me wouldn't even stand a chance.

“I wouldn't have to wait in line, and I wouldn't even beg."

He searched my eyes for a long moment. "So, you got what you wanted because I was broke."

The floating comments blew up.

“He remembered that! He actually remembered!”

“He can pretend to be bankrupt, but he can't pretend he doesn't care.”

My phone buzzed with a screenshot.

Wendy had posted a photo on social media.

A designer bag perched on the hood of Victor's Ferrari.

“Real heiresses don't settle for trash in a wheelchair,” the caption read.

She even tagged me.

Harry asked while adjusting his brakes, "Who's that?"

I deleted the post and blocked her. "Just someone looking for attention."

The floating comment started flashing aggressively with new comments.

“That bag is an $80 knockoff! Victor bought two for one.”

“The real flex is that dusty red cord on his table. That’s the master seal key for the entire Harry estate!”

I glanced toward the corner of the table.

A faded red cord was tied around an old, oxidized copper seal, looking completely unremarkable.

Harry followed my gaze. "Don't touch it. Just old junk."

"Keep it safe anyway," I said, looking away. "Don't let someone sell it to a scrap metal yard by mistake."

A faint, rare smile tugged at his lip. "Did you get paid today?"

"Yeah. Five hundred bucks. After rent, I've got two hundred left."

"Anything you want to buy?"

I turned my phone around to show him a listing on a secondhand app.

"Anti-slip tires for your wheelchair. Lightly used, thirty bucks."

Harry frowned. "For me?"

"Your tires were slipping yesterday. You almost rolled down the hill.

"You don't have much money to spare.

"That's why I'm buying used."

---

I went downstairs to pick up the delivery.

When I got back, I knelt beside his wheelchair to swap out the tires.

The bolt was rusted tight.

I put my weight into the wrench, and my sleeve slipped down, exposing a jagged old scar on my wrist.

Harry’s hand clamped over the tool, stopping me. "How did you get this?"

I yanked my sleeve down. "Frostbite."

"Who left you out in the cold?"

"The family would just deny it anyway. No point asking."

He didn't let go of the wrench. "Clara."

I raised my head. "Don't investigate me like a crime scene. I'm not a piece of evidence."

His fingers stiffened on the handle. "I was just asking."

"And I answered." I took back the wrench and kept turning the bolt.

He paused for a long beat. "What do you want?"

"What?"

"A designer bag, a car, a house, or money?"

I snapped the new tire securely into place. "My final performance review at work is next week. Just promise me you won't get into trouble."

His eyebrows twitched. "That's all?"

"Keeping my job is a lot more practical than owning a purse."

Harry engaged the new brake, and the wheel locked firmly in place. "What do you do at your company?"

"Entry-level data analyst. Minimum wage now, a bump up once I pass probation."

"Does anyone pick on you?"

"It's a company, not a charity. People take credit for your work all the time."

He stared at my wrist. "Your hand is shaking."

I tossed the wrench back into the toolbox. "Just cold."

He took off his heavy jacket and threw it over my shoulders. "Put it on."

"Aren't you cold?"

"My legs are paralyzed, not the rest of my body."

I placed the jacket right back over his knees.

"Then keep them warm. We have to take photos for the marriage certificate tomorrow. I don't need you looking like a corpse."

He pressed his lips together, silent for a long moment. "You really have a sharp mouth, Clara."

I picked up the toolbox.

"If you're poor, you have to be outspoken or people will break your bones."

The floating chat froze for a second before cascading into chaos.

“Oh man, his heart just melted.”

“Day one of pretending to be broke, and his new wife is already fixing his wheelchair.”