Five Months in His Wheelchair, Forever in His Arms

Sophie's POV

I'm standing at the entrance of the Morgan family estate's ballroom, watching Harold Whitmore—a sixty-year-old oil tycoon—flash me what he probably thinks is a charming smile.

Jesus Christ.

Uncle George just introduced him as a "very promising business partner."

Promising my ass. This man could be my father.

"Sophie, go chat with Mr. Whitmore." Uncle George leans in, his voice low. "He's very interested in the Morgan family's architectural projects."

Translation: Go butter up this old man. He's loaded.

My stomach turns.

This is my twenty-sixth birthday "gift"—being dangled like bait for a family alliance. Because the Morgan family will stipulates that the heir must marry before thirty or lose their inheritance rights.

Four years left.

But Uncle George clearly can't wait.

"I need some air." I set down my champagne flute and slip out while Whitmore's cornered by other guests.

My heels click against the marble floor as I pick up speed through the corridor, pushing open the glass door to the back garden.

The night air hits me, cool and sweet with the scent of gardenias.

I breathe in deep, closing my eyes.

Those sixteen years in Europe, I thought I'd escaped this family. Thought I could live on my own terms.

Turns out I'm right back where I started.

Still a pawn.

"Running from your own wedding?"

A man's voice drifts from deeper in the garden.

I open my eyes and see a figure in a wheelchair with his back to me. Moonlight catches his profile—sharp jawline, broad shoulders.

Wait.

That voice...

"Soph?" He turns the wheelchair around, moonlight flooding his face.

My heart skips.

"Ethan?" The name comes out barely above a whisper. "Ethan Cross?"

It's him. That boy who used to run circles around everyone.

My gaze drops to the wheelchair, to the blanket draped over his legs.

Something twists in my chest.

"Sixteen years." Ethan smiles, but there's something bitter in it. "This is what I've become."

"What happened?" I'm moving before I think, dropping to my knees in front of him so we're eye to eye. Just like when we used to play in the Cross family's backyard.

Except back then, he was always standing. Always running ahead of me.

Now...

"Car accident." He keeps it simple. "Three years ago. Leg injury. Doctors said..." He pauses. "Probably never walking again."

My throat tightens. "I didn't know. I was in Europe until three months ago..."

"I know." He cuts me off. "Heard you came back. Also heard you're being forced into marriage."

I let out a bitter laugh. "News travels fast."

"Old family friends." He shrugs. "So that old guy back there—he's one of the candidates?"

"Don't remind me." I stand up and sink onto a stone bench in the garden. "I'd rather lose the inheritance at thirty than marry someone like that."

"Really?" Ethan wheels himself to face me. "You'd give up the Morgan Architecture Group? You sure about that?"

"Positive." I meet his eyes. "I'd rather be dead than marry that man."

Memories flood in without warning.

Seven years old—Ethan teaching me to build a treehouse in that massive oak at his place. When I fell, he rushed over, his palms scraped raw.

Eight years old—flying kites in Central Park, him pulling me along by the hand.

Nine years old—some boy at school giving me shit, Ethan fighting him, blood streaming from his nose but still grinning like it was nothing.

Ten years old...

The day Mom took me away, Ethan held me and cried, asking if I'd ever come back.

I said I would.

But I didn't.

Sixteen years.

Now here we are again, and he's in a wheelchair.

"Marry me."

Ethan's voice cuts through my thoughts.

I nearly choke. "What?"

"Five-year contract marriage." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "You need a husband to keep your inheritance. I need a wife so my family stops setting me up on blind dates. We both get what we need."

I stare at him. "Ethan, this isn't something to joke about..."

"I'm not joking." His eyes lock onto mine. "Sophie, we know each other. Our families go back three generations. This kind of arrangement works for everyone. And..." He glances down at his legs, voice dropping. "Like this, I'm not exactly a catch anymore."

Something clenches in my chest.

This isn't the Ethan I remember.

Not the boy who ran the fastest, climbed the highest, laughed the loudest.

"Don't say that." The words come out rougher than I intend. "You..."

My eyes wander over him without permission.

Even in the wheelchair, his upper body radiates strength. Broad shoulders filling out that tailored suit, the line of his arms visible beneath the fabric.

"Why me?" I ask.

"Because you're Sophie Morgan." He leans forward slightly. "Because you used to bandage my scrapes when we were kids. Because you won't look at me with pity." He pauses. "Because I trust you."

I bite my lip.

If it's Ethan...

At least he won't try to control me. He can't exactly chase me around. I'd actually have more freedom.

And honestly, being with him makes me feel safe. Like I'm ten years old again.

"Five years?" I ask.

"Five years. Clean break after. We'll sign a legal agreement."

I extend my hand.

Ethan takes it. His palm is warm and rough, nothing like the soft boy's hand I remember.

We've made a deal.

A five-year contract marriage.

With my best friend from childhood.