He Crippled Me to Crown His Niece

§01

Do you, Odette Roth, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

The words hung in the cavernous silence of the cathedral, laced with the scent of lilies and old stone.

Everyone was watching her.

Her fiancé, his hand clammy in hers.

Her best friend, Giselle Fairchild, standing as maid of honor, her smile a little too bright.

And him.

Desmond Fairchild.

Giselle’s uncle.

The man who had orchestrated this entire fairy tale.

He stood in the front pew, his captivating eyes fixed on her, a silent benefactor witnessing his creation.

Odette opened her mouth, the word "I do" ready to form, a promise she had rehearsed for months.

But what came out was a choked gasp.

Because her fiancé had just released her hand.

He turned, not to the priest, not to her, but to Giselle.

He took Giselle’s hands in his.

"I can't," he whispered, his voice cracking, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "I'm sorry, Odette. It's always been her."

A collective inhale swept through the pews.

Giselle’s perfect smile faltered, replaced by a mask of tear-streaked shock, a performance of Oscar-worthy caliber.

Odette felt nothing.

Her world had gone white, silent, a television with the volume turned off.

She watched them, a tableau of betrayal framed by stained glass.

Then, she turned and ran.

Her tulle gown snagged and tore as she fled down the aisle, the gasps and whispers a wave chasing her out into the rain.

The downpour was merciless, plastering her hair to her cheeks, soaking the delicate lace of her dress until it felt like a shroud.

She didn't know where she was going.

Away.

That was all.

Headlights blurred through the curtain of water.

A horn blared, a sound swallowed by the storm.

She turned toward the noise, blinded.

There was a screech of tires, a sickening impact that felt less like pain and more like a final, brutal stop.

And then, nothing at all.

§02

The first thing she registered was the smell.

Antiseptic and cloyingly sweet lilies, a scent that would forever be tied to the worst day of her life.

Odette’s eyelids fluttered open.

The world was a smear of white.

White ceiling, white sheets, white walls.

"You're awake."

The voice was low, calm, a deep baritone that cut through the fog in her mind.

Desmond Fairchild rose from a chair in the corner of the private hospital room.

He moved with an unhurried grace, his tailored suit immaculate despite the late hour.

"The doctors said the surgery was a success," he continued, stopping by her bedside. "You're very lucky."

Lucky.

The word was a joke.

She tried to speak, but her throat was sandpaper.

She tried to move, to shift away from him, but her body wouldn't respond.

A cold dread, sharper than any physical pain, began to creep through her veins.

She looked down.

Her legs were still there, hidden beneath the crisp sheets, but she couldn't feel them.

Not a twitch.

Not a tingle.

Nothing.

Tears welled in her eyes, hot and silent.

"Don't," Desmond said softly, his voice a strange mix of command and comfort.

He reached out, not with pity, but with a possessive gentleness, and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"Everything is going to be alright. I'm here now. I'll take care of you."

Later, the doctor came in.

A kind-faced man with tired eyes who spoke in gentle, devastating euphemisms.

"Severe spinal trauma."

"Nerve damage."

"A long road to recovery."

"We're hopeful, but... we need to be realistic."

Paralyzed.

The word was never spoken, but it screamed in the space between his sentences.

Her life as a dancer, the years of sweat and pain, the title of Principal Dancer at the Aethelred Ballet Conservatory that had been within her grasp... all of it, gone.

Erased in a single, screeching moment.

Desmond handled everything.

He paid the astronomical hospital bills, consulted with the world's leading specialists, and shielded her from the ensuing media storm about the "jilted bride's tragic accident."

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