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CHAPTER TWENTY: THE SCRATCH IN HIS PAST
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2025-05-27 14:54:38
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Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: THE FAMILY TABLE
Layla Pov Expecting a happy party, a chance to relieve the stress of my marriage to Dario, and a chance to feel some love from his family, I enter the courtyard of the Harrison family mansion. Lowering my defenses when he rolled into my room yesterday with a navy silk frock balanced on his lap. In a quiet but determined voice, he said, "For the family dinner." "I want you with me there." The gown shone in the lamplight, its subtle beauty a striking contrast to my battered hands and shabby jumper. Was this a sign of reconciliation or just another trick in his toolbox? I nodded, tempted by a glimmer of hope that I may catch sight of the man hiding in the shadow.When Dario and I walk into the garden, the looks come like a chilly wind, destroying my idea of a cozy get-together. Fairy lights flicker among old oaks, illuminating well-kept hedges and marble fountains with a golden glow, their gentle whispers overpowered by the weight of eyes—judging, dissecting. Standing next to me, Dario
Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:THE INVITATION
Dario POVSilence reverberates through the marble hallways of the estate, a chilly reminder of Layla's absence. She has been a ghost for a month, sneaking out at dawn to see Dave or working at Harmony Haven's miserable front desk, her trainers squeaking against the flooring to keep me at bay. Our conversations are brief, terse nods over breakfast, courteous whispers when Andrew takes her to the hospital, her eyes flitting from mine. Sometimes I see her in the corridor, a shadow, her hazel eyes wary, suspicions etched into her scowl. It pierces deeper than I acknowledge; she has created a wall that I am unable to overcome.With my hands holding the rims until my knuckles hurt, I wheel through the estate, the buzz of my chair a lonely rhythm. Her avoidance is a slow poison that erodes the tenuous bond we've held since our marriage, but I don't want to force her to face me out of pride or fear, I'm not sure which. My phone buzzes as I'm in my study, with contracts and a half-empty glass
Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER TWENTY: THE SCRATCH IN HIS PAST
Layla Pov I sit at the front desk of my non-profit, Harmony Haven, like a degraded soldier without a rank, and the place is a battlefield. My failure is defended by mountains of paperwork; each stack is a sharp reminder of my slide from project manager to receptionist—a hurt so acute it makes me gasp. Sorting mail, answering phones, and recording donor lists are all such insignificant chores that they make fun of my previous position. My hands hurt, and the fluorescent lights burn my tired eyes, their buzz acting as an unforgiving arbiter. As a horrifying indication of Dario's strength, the echo of his warning, "You'll regret it," throbs in my head. Was this something he anticipated? Did he have an impact on this tiny non-profit that I believed to be my haven? I resist the want to let paranoia take over, yet the concept nags at me. I've endured worse—my stepmother's plots and Matthew's deception. If it means slogging my way back up from the bottom, I'll make it through this too.I wa
Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER NINETEEN:BACK TO WORK
Layla PovDespite Dario's attention yesterday, my hands hurt, my palms are scraped raw, my knuckles are bruised purple from my fall, and my top has a small dirt streak. I can still picture his tender hands rubbing my wounds, his wheelchair whirring as he leaned in close, his black eyes piercing with remorse. His touch gave me a brief sense of warmth and comfort, but my heart remains closed and sealed tight following Matthew's betrayal and my stepmother's heartless arrangement, which forced me into this marriage. Despite its kindness, Dario's attention cannot penetrate the barriers I've put up; my emotional distance serves as a barrier.His wheelchair's rims glinted in the ward's lights as he carefully cleaned my scratches, applying antiseptic to my forearm—the sting was acute, but his fingers were gentle—and carefully bandaged my shin. His touch was feather-light and almost reverent as he washed the mud from my face, his cloth sliding over my cheeks, as though he could take away the f
Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: LINGERING TOUCH
Dario PovWith my brow furrowed as I examined her wounds, I wheeled forward, my fingers hovering close to her wrist, shaking with restraint. With a low murmur that almost conceals my fear, I thicken my voice and ask, "Layla, did you see who did this to you?" She quickly denies it by shaking her head and averting her gaze. Her voice is firm but laced with a lie that I am unable to dispute at this time. "I just panicked and tripped because I thought the car was following me," she adds. I carefully rotate her wrist, my fingers moving slowly and almost hesitantly as I record every bruise and scrape—the muck running her clothing, the pavement biting her forearm. I touch her lightly and purposefully, but her skin twitches under my fingers, a spark that catches my guarded heart. Afraid to hurt her further, I halt short as my thumb hovers over a scratch. I blurt out, "This was because of me," a syllable of regret almost drowned out by the monitor's beep. When our eyes meet, I briefly allow
Married To The Crippled Billionaire CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SCARS AND SECRETS 2
Dario PovAs I wheel out of the office, the glass walls blur, Edward's words—"She was chased, fell"—a jagged blade in my chest, guilt roars, a tidal wave drowning reason, my decision to face the company's crisis, a fatal error that left Layla exposed. In the car, the grey skyline of the city streaks past, but my pulse hammers, every second a torment. My knuckles whiten on the armrests of my wheelchair, the leather seat feels cold against my fitted suit, and the cedar-and-sandalwood cologne clings to me like a slight anchor. But is she really safe, fear coils? The hospital feels galaxies distant from the steady hands of my driver, who handles traffic. "Speed up, now," I say sharply as I lean forward. Time crawls, each red light a mocking delay, while the tires screech and the engine bellows. The tumult of the day is replayed in graphic, stinging detail as my thoughts spiral. Alongside Layla's escape, her frantic journey, and the chase of that automobile, Edward's call at six in the m
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