My Cheating Ex In My Wheelchair

There were only ten minutes left in the trial, and victory was finally within reach.

My attorneywho also happened to be my husband, Dylansuddenly took a phone call.

When he hung up, his face was completely bloodless. He began frantically packing his files into his briefcase.

Your Honor, he said, his voice echoing in the courtroom, "the plaintiff wishes to dismiss the charges."

The room erupted. I stared at him, my mind spinning into a complete blur.

"Dylan, what are you doing?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Melanie ran me over. She broke both my legs. She ruined my life!"

"You promised me," I pleaded, tears burning my eyes. "You promised youd put her behind bars!"

But Dylan only looked at me with a tortured expression, his voice a harsh, low hiss.

"Melanie is on the roof of her building, Charlotte. If I don't go, shes going to jump!"

"Your legs are already gone, but she stands to lose her entire reputation! Her whole life!"

"I promise you, I will buy you the best wheelchair money can buy."

Without a single glance back, he bolted out of the courtroom, leaving me with nothing but the fading echo of his hurried footsteps.

The air conditioning in the courtroom felt like ice against the empty space where my legs used to be.

I sat there, my mouth dry, unable to make a sound. The soft whispers from the gallery swirled around me like a physical weight.

The judge rapped her gavel three times, her voice ringing out to ask if I consented to the dismissal.

I stared at the heavy wooden doors where Dylan had just vanished. My fingers gripped the armrests of my wheelchair so hard my knuckles turned white.

"I consent," I whispered.

The words felt like ash in my mouth.

Across the aisle, Melanies defense attorney offered me a tight, smug smile.

From the gallery, a womans quiet voice floated over: "Showing up to court like that... she's desperate."

"I heard she was the one who instigated it," another whispered back. "They say Miss Foster was the real victim here."

"Then why is her own husband representing her?"

"Who knows? Probably trying to keep her quiet so she doesn't embarrass him."

When the court adjourned, Melanie walked past me, her designer heels clicking against the polished floor. She deliberately let the toe of her shoe brush against the wheel of my chair.

"Oh, Charlotte," she murmured, leaning down so only I could hear. "Look at that. Dylan still chose me."

I looked away, staring down at my useless lap.

Three months ago, Dylan and I had just signed our marriage license. We were on our way to tour wedding venues when Melanie called. She claimed she was drunk at a bar, surrounded by aggressive men, begging Dylan to come rescue her.

I begged him not to go. But Dylan simply bypassed me, grabbed his keys, and drove off.

Furious and hurt, I got into my own car and followed him.

The moment I pulled up outside the bar, Melanies Mercedes-AMG surged forward. She drove straight into me.

When I woke up in the ICU, both of my legs were gone from the knee down.

In the hospital, Dylan held my hand and wept. He promised me a thousand times that he would make her pay. He said he would be my legs, that he would cherish and take care of me for the rest of my life.

And I believed him.

I believed him so deeply that I signed over half of the inheritance my late father had left meas my dowrystraight into his name.

How pathetic.

I rolled myself out of the courthouse. Outside, Seattle was in the middle of a torrential downpour. The concrete ramp was slick, and my hands kept slipping on the wet metal rims.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Dylan's number.

On the third try, he finally picked up. I could hear the howling wind in the background, punctuated by Melanie's hysterical, breathless sobbing.

"Charlotte, stop calling," he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "Melanie is highly unstable right now. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home."

Before I could say a word, the line went dead.

The rain poured down over my face, mixing with my tears.

Grit-faced, I gripped the cold handrail of the ramp, trying to guide myself down. But the wet wheels lost traction. The wheelchair tipped, throwing me violently onto the asphalt.

My surgical wounds hadn't fully healed yet. The impact tore them open, and I felt a sharp, sickening burst of pain. Within seconds, warm blood began soaking through my heavy bandages, running into the cold puddles around me.

I lay there in the freezing rain, staring up at the gray sky, too exhausted to even scream.

I lost track of time. Then, a shadow blocked the rain, and someone knelt down beside me.

"Charlotte? It's Elvis. Elvis Mercer. I used to work with your father."

He was holding a large black umbrella, the cuffs of his expensive trousers already soaked.

He didn't ask questions. He simply lifted me up with surprising gentleness, carried me to the backseat of his car, and wrapped a thick, warm towel around my shivering frame.

The car heater blasted warm air, but my teeth wouldn't stop chattering. My hands shook so violently I couldn't even hold the cup of hot cocoa he handed me.

"Thank you," I rasped, my throat raw.

Elvis didn't say much. He used a dry towel to gently dry my hair while instructing his driver to head straight to the hospital.

Once we arrived, he handled all the admission paperwork. Only when I was settled in a warm bed did my mind start to clear.

"Elvis... let me pay you back. How much was it?"

He waved his hand dismissively, tucking the receipts into the bedside drawer.

"Don't worry about it right now. Focus on healing."

His phone rang a moment later. He answered it, then turned back to me with a polite smile, explaining he had an urgent matter at his firm but to call him if I needed anything.

Not long after Elvis left, Dylan walked in.

Seeing me in the hospital bed, his first reaction wasn't sympathyit was a subtle, irritated knit of his brows.

"How did you manage to do this to yourself?"

"I called you," I said, a suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. "I called you so many times. Why didn't you answer?"

Dylans eyes flickered, looking away as he sat on the edge of my bed. He reached out to stroke my cheek, but I flinched away.

"Charlotte, look, I know you're angry," he said, his voice carrying a defensive weight. "But Melanie was truly on the edge. You don't get itpeople online are calling her a homewrecker, a murderer. If she had actually jumped, I would have had to live with that guilt for the rest of my life."

He spoke with such self-righteous certainty, as if I were the one lacking compassion.

My voice trembled. "So Melanies reputation is worth more than my legs?"

Dylan suddenly grabbed my hand, his grip tight and unyielding.

"Your legs are already gone, Charlotte! No amount of fighting in court is going to grow them back! But Melanie is young. If she gets a criminal record, her entire future is ruined."

"I promise you," he pleaded, softening his tone, "once this blows over, Ill take you to Europe. Well get you the absolute best prosthetics available. We can go back to how things were. Please?"

He looked at me with that familiar, tender gazethe one that used to dissolve my anger instantly, the one that always made me yield.

Now, it only made my stomach turn.

I wrenched my hand free, pulled myself into my wheelchair, and rolled toward the door.

Dylan stepped in front of me, his expression darkening.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home."

I couldn't stand being in the same room as him for another second. The air felt thick, unbreathable.

Dylan didn't stop me, but he followed me out of the hospital.

When we arrived back at our house, the front door opened to reveal Melanie sitting on our living room sofa. She was wearing one of Dylan's button-down shirts.

The moment she saw me, her eyes welled with tears. She scrambled off the couch and dropped to her knees in front of my chair.

"Charlotte, I am so, so sorry," she wept, her voice trembling. "Its all my fault. Please don't blame Dylan. You can hate me, you can hit me, just please don't hate him."

Dylan rushed forward, hoisting her up and shielding her behind his back.

He turned to me, his tone laced with a warning.

"Charlotte, Melanie is extremely fragile right now. Don't push her."

I stared at the two of them, and a hollow laugh escaped my chest.

"This is my house. You're the ones who need to leave."

Dylans face instantly darkened.

"Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. Melanie has nowhere else to go. Shes staying here for a few days until the press cools down, and then Ill find her a place."

Behind his shoulder, Melanie peeked out at me, her tear-stained face masking a smug, victorious glimmer in her eyes.

Without another word, I wheeled myself into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

Leaning my back against the wood, the tears finally spilled over.

Dylan and I had been together for seven years. When he was courting me in college, he had stood outside my dorm room in the freezing cold all night just to apologize after our first fight. The snow had been inches deep, his lips blue as he swore he would never love anyone else.

My father had hated him. He saw right through Dylan. I had fought my father for weeksscreaming, crying, even going on a hunger strike.

Eventually, my father relented. He bought us a beautiful townhouse and set up a trust fund worth millions as my wedding gift.

Now, just three months into our marriage, every promise we made was a sick joke.

In the dead of night, I heard hushed giggles and low whispers from the living room.

My phone had died from the rain and refused to turn on. I sat propped up against the headboard, staring into the dark until dawn.

The next morning, I unlocked the door and rolled out to find Dylan in the kitchen making breakfast. Melanie was standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist.

When she saw me, she quickly pulled away, looking flustered.

Dylan glanced back, slid a fried egg onto a plate, and handed it to her.

"Oh, you're up," he said casually, as if yesterdays betrayal in court had never happened. "There's coffee and oatmeal on the counter. Help yourself."

I ignored him, heading straight for the entryway to grab my purse.

Dylan stepped in my way. "Where are you going?"

"To find a new attorney. I'm refiling the charges," I said, my voice dead calm.

Dylans face flushed an angry crimson. He snatched my bag right out of my hands and slammed it onto the console table.

"Charlotte! When is this temper tantrum going to end? I told you, this is over!"

"Are you really not going to stop until you've driven Melanie to suicide?"

Looking at his contorted face, the last shred of my hope withered away.

"Dylan, you either get out of my way right now, or we get a divorce."

He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

"Divorce? Look at yourself, Charlotte. Who is going to want you like this? Who is going to take care of you?"

"Let me make this clear: you are not refiling, and you are not getting a divorce. Forget it."

He picked up my purse and marched over to the study, locking it inside his personal safe.

Melanie stood by the kitchen island, biting her lip, looking on the verge of tears.

"Dylan, please don't fight with her because of me. It's my fault. I should just leave."

She made a theatrical move toward the door, but Dylan immediately caught her by the wrist.

"Don't talk like that. This has nothing to do with you. As long as I'm here, no one is kicking you out."

I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. I dug through my vanity drawer until I found an old backup phone, plugged it in, and waited for it to boot up.

The second it connected to the Wi-Fi, a barrage of urgent messages from my late fathers executive assistant flooded the screen.

Dylan has drained the company's entire operating account.

My head spun so violently I nearly blacked out.

My father had passed away from a sudden stroke last year, and the management of his logistics firm had fallen to Dylan while I was recovering from the amputation. I had been in too much physical and emotional pain to pay attention to the business.

I never imagined he could be so brazenly corrupt.

Suppressed rage gave me sudden energy. I pushed my way back into the living room.

Dylan looked up from his tablet, his expression weary. "What now, Charlotte?"

"Did you drain the firm's accounts?" I demanded, my hands shaking.

He remained silent for a few seconds, then shrugged with complete indifference.

"Yeah. Melanie's mother is in the hospital and needs medical treatment. I borrowed some capital. I'll pay it back when things settle."

"That money was for our payroll! How are we supposed to pay our employees?" I screamed.

Dylan scoffed. "They can wait a couple of days. Don't be so heartless, Charlotte. If Melanie's mother doesn't get this surgery, she could die."

"Are your employees' paychecks more important than a human life?"

I shook so violently I couldn't form words.

Before I could find my voice, his phone rang. It was Melanie, weeping that her mother had just woken up and needed him.

Dylan muttered a quick affirmation, grabbed his jacket, and walked out.

I slumped back into my wheelchair, completely numb.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Dylan had never loved me. He had married me for my father's legacy, for my familys wealth.

And Melanie running me over... maybe that hadn't been an accident at all.

I sat alone in the dark living room until midnight, my thoughts racing in a chaotic loop.

Then, a memory surfaced. My father had a trusted corporate attorney he had worked with for decades.

I opened my old contacts and found the number. But just as I pressed call, the front door swung open.

Dylan stood in the entryway, his eyes immediately locking onto the glowing screen in my hand.

"Who are you calling?"

I quickly tapped the screen to end the call, slipping the phone behind my back.

"No one. Just calling the clinic about my physical therapy."

Dylan strode over, extending a cold hand. "Give me the phone."

I leaned back, trying to shield it, but his face hardened. He lunged forward and wrenched it from my grip.

He unlocked the screen and scrolled through the recent calls. When he saw the attorney's name, his expression grew incredibly dark.

"Charlotte, you really don't know when to quit, do you?"

He threw the phone hard against the hardwood floor. The screen shattered into a web of broken glass.

"Let me make this clear: don't bother looking for a lawyer. All the evidence from the crash is locked away in my office. You couldn't build a case against Melanie even if you tried."

He knelt down in front of me, grabbing my chin with a bruising grip.

"Be a good wife, Charlotte. Keep quiet, and Ill make sure you live comfortably. But if you try to cross me again, you won't like what happens next."

He pushed my wheelchair into the bedroom, slammed the door, and I heard the sharp click of the deadbolt locking from the outside.

Sitting in the dark, staring at the ruined phone on the floor, the tears finally flowed silently.

I was locked in. The windows had security bars installed after my accident. I was completely trapped.

For the next three days, Dylan only opened the door to slide a tray of food inside. He never spoke to me.

Through the thick wood, I could hear Melanie's soft giggles and Dylans low, murmuring voicethe same gentle tone he used to reserve only for me.

I starved myself, refusing to touch a single drop of water.

On the fourth morning, Dylan unlocked the door to bring breakfast. Seeing my pale, sunken face resting against the headboard, he sighed in irritation.

"What is this? A hunger strike?"

He placed a bowl of soup on the nightstand. "Do you honestly think this is going to make me feel sorry for you?"

I looked up at him, my throat burning.

"I won't file the charges," I rasped.

Dylan paused, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. "See? Was that so hard? We could have avoided all this unpleasantness."

He picked up the spoon, blowing on the broth, and held it to my lips.

I turned my head away, keeping my eyes locked onto his.

"But I want a divorce."