Chapter 5: The Disabled Heir

LUCIEN

“I plan to skip the engagement ceremony and move directly to your marriage with Noemie.”

My mother, Vivienne Blackthorne, delivered the decision out of the blue as we ate dinner at my place.

My hands paused briefly over the steak knife—only for a fraction of a second—before I resumed cutting as if nothing had happened.

Then I took a bite, chewed slowly, then hummed in acknowledgment.

Perhaps my reaction was too mild, because she set her cutlery down and leaned forward, studying my face.

“Are you upset,” she asked carefully, “that I made this decision without consulting you?”

I looked up and met her gaze, a faint sense of helplessness rising in my chest.

After swallowing, I picked up my glass and took a sip of water before answering.

“I’m not upset, Mom,” I said flatly. “This marriage was bound to happen sooner or later. Pushing it forward doesn’t make much difference to me.”

I paused, a fleeting trace of self-mockery passing through my eyes.

“I’m just not sure whether the Laurents will still be willing to follow through,” I added lightly, “given my current situation.”

As I spoke, my gaze flicked deliberately to my motionless legs—and the wheelchair beneath me.

A fierce, protective look crossed her face instantly.

“Only my son has the right to reject others,” she said coldly. “Never the other way around.”

Then she continued, her tone firm, “I’ve already informed Mrs. Laurent and Noemie. They didn’t express any objections, and only said they would notify Mr. Laurent and arrange a formal meeting with us to discuss the wedding date.”

Of course they wouldn’t object openly, I thought.

Those two women—both young and old—had always been adept at maintaining appearances. They wouldn’t risk offending my mother to her face.

As for what they truly thought, or what they planned to do behind closed doors…

That was another matter entirely.

I didn’t voice those thoughts.

Instead, I tilted my head slightly and said, “Seems like you’re getting old, Mom.”

So old that, despite being the Chairwoman of the Blackthorne Group, you can no longer see through the clumsy façades of a hypocritical family.

Or perhaps—because it concerns your son—you’re choosing to turn a blind eye.

Unaware of my implication, her brows furrowed faintly as she lifted a hand to her face.

“Are my wrinkles that noticeable?” she muttered. “But I’ve only missed a few spa visits…”

A glint of mischief flashed through my eyes.

“I can spot a few,” I said seriously, studying her well-maintained face. “Which is why you should stop by the spa on your way back. If you keep neglecting your skincare, it might actually get worse.”

“R-Really?” Her voice wavered as she touched her face with both hands.

She hesitated, clearly tempted by my suggestion, but after a moment, she shook her head.

“No. The spa can wait,” she said firmly. “How could I possibly have that leisure when my son is…”

Her words trailed off.

At the same time, the faint curve of my lips faded.

I wasn’t exactly surprised at her refusal.

Since the accident that had confined me to a wheelchair a month ago, my mother had changed.

She’d become overly cautious towards me—measuring her words, second-guessing her actions—as though I had become fragile glass that might shatter at the slightest touch.

She withdrew from social engagements, with her world narrowing to just two things: me and work.

Even her weekly spa visits—once an unshakable habit—had been abandoned.

But she didn’t realize that this kind of care only made me feel worse.

I didn’t need her to shrink her world for me.

I wanted her to treat me as she always had: as an independent adult.

Yet beneath it all, I knew the truth.

She simply refused to accept that her proud son had become disabled.

Ironically, in doing so, she was treating me exactly as she feared I had become.

“Mom,” I said quietly, my lips tightening. “It’s time you accepted reality. I am indeed disabled.”

Her brows knitted together, her lips parting to respond, but I interrupted calmly.

“Your constant check-ins, the way you fuss over me and carefully choose every word—it makes me feel more useless than I actually am. Like I’ve become a burden to you.”

I met her gaze steadily.

“You have a life. You have work to do. But for the past month, you’ve abandoned everything for my sake. I don’t need that.”

“What I want,” I continued, “is for you to return to being Vivienne Blackthorne—the decisive, unstoppable woman you’ve always been.”

I paused.

“I’ve already come to terms with what happened. It won’t drag me down. And I don’t want it dragging you down either.”

Silence stretched between us.

After a long moment, she lowered her head.

“You’re right,” she said hoarsely. “I have been living too passively… letting idle gossip get to me.”

When she lifted her head again, aside from a faint redness in her eyes, her composure had returned.

“But Lucien,” she said, her voice sharpening with determination, “I still think it’s too early to give up. Your condition Isn’t completely hopeless.”

My fingers curled slowly into a fist as my gaze dropped.

In the end, it was just as I’d said.

She just wasn’t willing to accept it.

I recalled the words of Dr. Hayes, the attending surgeon after my accident.

“You sustained a severe spinal cord injury during the crash,” he had explained gently. “While the cord wasn’t completely severed, the impact caused extensive bruising and swelling. At this stage, anything beyond decompressing and stabilizing the spine would be too dangerous.”

“Over the coming weeks, your body will form glial scar tissue,” he continued. “It’s a protective mechanism, but it also blocks nerve signals, preventing natural recovery.”

My mother had leaned forward then, gripping the edge of the bed so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

“But you operated on him,” she insisted. “You said the surgery was successful.”

“We simply prevented further damage,” Dr. Hayes replied calmly. “Attempting anything more would have risked permanent paralysis—or worse, death.”

“That’s impossible!” she had cried, her voice hoarse from sobbing. “Medicine is so advanced now. There has to be someone who can treat him.”

“Overseas specialists, experimental treatments—any one of them might be able to help him.”

“I can provide referrals,” the doctor had interrupted gently. “But operating too early could turn an incomplete injury into a complete one.”

He had paused, then added, “Medical technology is advancing rapidly. There may be safer options in the near future, so I urge you not to ruin his chances with a rash decision.”

But my mother had never truly let go of that idea.

Back in the present, she rose to her feet.

“Alright. I should leave now,” she said briskly. “If I still want to make it to the spa before they close.”

That was her way of ending the discussion.

So I suppressed the restlessness in my chest and hummed softly in agreement.

Then I watched as she grabbed from the living room and left.

Once I was alone, my gaze drifted downward, staring at my immobile legs for a long while.

Then, without another word, I maneuvered my wheelchair toward the elevator and headed upstairs.