Substitute Marriage: Marrying The Disabled Billionaire

The heavy glass doors of the Los Angeles City Hall pushed open with a sluggish groan. Chrissy Vega stepped inside. The aggressive blast of the building's air conditioning hit her instantly. She shivered, her fingers instinctively tightening around the lapels of her cheap, beige trench coat. The fabric was thin, offering no real protection against the chill, just like the family name she carried. She stood in the center of the waiting area. Her eyes scanned the room, but the faces of the people sitting on the wooden benches blurred together into a meaningless wash of skin tones and indistinct features. This was her reality. Severe prosopagnosia. Face blindness. To her, a stranger and a lifelong friend looked exactly the same until they spoke or moved in a specific way. She sucked in a sharp breath. The air tasted like floor wax and stale paper. Just look for the wheelchair, she repeated the instruction in her head. Find the man in the wheelchair. That is your husband. Her gaze swept past the crowded rows and finally snagged on a corner near the hallway. A black wheelchair sat parked against the wall. A man in a red plaid shirt was sitting in it, his head bowed as he aggressively typed on his smartphone. Her mind was a chaotic mess of anxiety and desperation. She clung only to the keyword-wheelchair-entirely oblivious to the cheap plaid shirt or the standard hospital-issue chair. Chrissy didn't hesitate. She walked briskly toward him. The hard heels of her scuffed pumps clicked against the terrazzo floor, the sound sharp and frantic, echoing the erratic thudding of her heart against her ribs. She stopped right in front of the man's knees. She forced the corners of her mouth up, stretching her lips into the gentle, submissive smile she had practiced in her cramped attic mirror for three days. She bowed slightly, keeping her hands clasped tightly in front of her stomach to hide their trembling. "Mr. Rush," Chrissy said, her voice steady and earnest. "Hello. I am Chrissy Vega." The man in the plaid shirt jerked his head up. His brow furrowed. He stared at this strange woman standing over him with absolute confusion. Chrissy assumed he was just playing the part of the arrogant billionaire. The Vega family had warned her that Arch Rush III was a ruthless, broken man who hated the world because of his paralyzed legs. She needed to secure the fifty million dollars for her family's bankrupt company. She couldn't afford to mess this up. She sped up her words, reciting the script she had memorized. "I know I am here as a replacement for my older sister, Arleen. But I promise you, I will fulfill every duty of a wife. I will be quiet, I will be obedient, and I will take care of you." She reached out. Her hand landed softly on the man's shoulder. She patted the cheap flannel fabric. "I will never be disgusted by your legs," she added, her tone thick with forced sincerity. The man flinched violently. He shrank back against the vinyl backrest of the wheelchair. "Lady," he stammered, his eyes wide with panic. "You have the wrong guy." Chrissy froze. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin icy. Her hand hung suspended in the empty air between them. Her stomach plummeted, twisting into a tight, painful knot. Before she could form a single word of apology, a sound sliced through the air behind her. It was a scoff. A low, metallic sound that carried so much dark amusement and raw authority it felt like a bucket of ice water pouring directly down her spine. "Miss Vega." The voice was a deep baritone, vibrating with a dangerous edge. "It seems your eyesight is just as deficient as your sincerity." Chrissy whipped around. The hem of her trench coat flared out in a panicked arc. Less than six feet away, parked in the shadows of a marble pillar, was another wheelchair. This one was different. It was a custom-built, matte-black carbon fiber machine that screamed wealth. The man sitting in it wore a tailored, pitch-black haute couture suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. Arch Rush III rested his elbow on the armrest, his chin propped casually on his knuckles. His dark eyes locked onto hers, analyzing her with the cold detachment of a predator watching an insect struggle. Behind him stood a man built like a brick wall. The bodyguard, Mitch Nowak, stared straight ahead with a face carved from stone. Through the glass doors behind them, she could just make out the imposing silhouette of a black security SUV parked at the curb, a clear testament to the terrifying level of power this man wielded. Heat rushed up Chrissy's neck, setting her cheeks on fire. Her lungs tightened. She dropped her hands to her sides, her thumb frantically rubbing against the pad of her index finger-a nervous habit developed from years of testing the texture of flour in the bakery. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, her voice shaking. "I have mild prosopagnosia. Face blindness. I can't recognize features easily. I just saw the wheelchair and assumed-" "So," Arch interrupted. His voice was flat, slicing right through her excuse. "As long as the man is a cripple, you are perfectly willing to marry him." The words hit her like a physical slap across the face. Chrissy's shoulders slumped. The air punched out of her. She bit down hard on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood bloomed on her tongue. She forced herself to lift her chin and look directly into his dark, blurry eyes. She stopped rubbing her fingers together. She let the mask of the submissive wife drop. "As long as the man can clear the fifty million dollar capital injection into the Vega Group," she said, her voice dropping to a quiet, hard whisper. "Yes. It can be anyone." Arch's eyes narrowed. A flicker of dark, dangerous interest sparked in his gaze. He didn't yell. He didn't order her away. He simply tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the side. Mitch understood the silent command instantly. The massive bodyguard stepped forward and gripped the handles of the carbon fiber wheelchair, pushing Arch out of the shadows and directly toward her.