All Chapters of Married To The Crippled Billionaire : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Dario PovAfter years of longing, the master bedroom of the house feels like a dream come true, with its carved double doors gleaming beneath the warm light of the chandelier. My lost love, Layla, is back, and her presence is like a spark rekindling a fire I believed had gone out. Imagining Layla here, her laughter resonating as it did in that bookshop years ago, her hazel eyes softening in trust, makes my heart rush. I had been imagining her in this room for days, preparing for her arrival. "Make sure the linens are soft, the pillows are fluffed, and the windows are cracked for fresh air—she loves the breeze," I remarked, my voice brimming with uncommon tenderness. She loves lilies, so add a vase of them. Ms Chelsea, the home caretaker, sensed my hope and nodded briskly, her eyes kind. I wanted Layla to feel safe and loved, like a wife taking back her position in my life, and I wanted every little detail to whisper welcome. Instead of being a cage, this room was supposed to be our s

Edward POVEver since the accident that left Dario bound to that wheelchair, the Boss has been the center of my life. I saw something change in him the day I told him that Layla had lost her memory, yet his love for her remained unwavering. He gave me the responsibility of following her around like a shadow, documenting every event to support his desire to restore what they had lost. Although it made my job more difficult, her father protected her, an obstinate guy attempting to shield his daughter from a past she was unable to remember. Layla fell in the cracks—new routines, new jobs—and I found it difficult to keep up. I, therefore, struck a bargain with her stepmother, a chilly individual with cunning eyes.She gave me information about Layla's workplace, which was a little bookshop at first, then a café; her interests, which were poetry and modest apartments; and the people she encountered, such as Matthew, the serpent who deceived her with her stepsister.Every detail served as

Layla PovThe uneasy silence that permeates the air during the journey to Harrison Private Suite feels oppressive, pressing against my chest. Edward's eyes are focused on the road ahead while his hands, with whitened knuckles, grip the steering wheel. With my rucksack firmly grasped on my lap and the strap digging into my shoulder, I sat rigidly in the passenger seat. The sole sound is the engine's hum, a low drone that heightens the suspense. With grey buildings, flickering lamps, and the occasional walker bundled against the early morning chill, I gaze out the window and watch the city pass by.Like unblinking eyes, my memory replays the black automobile with its tinted windows. Was I being followed? Although the question persists, Edward's presence next to me feels like a cage in and of itself. I don't talk. He doesn't either. My breath catches as we pull at Harrison Private Suite's entrance. The clean, crammed public hospital is not at all what I had envisioned. The front of this

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

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