Chapter 5 5

Paper Rings and Fragile Hearts

Sophia's POV

When I signed the marriage contract with Williams, it didn't feel like a triumph. It felt like walking a tightrope across a sea of memories-his and mine, but especially the ones he had no idea I shared.

Our wedding was a shadow of what I once imagined. No petals raining from the sky, no whispered vows laced with love. Just ink on paper and a quiet room with a lawyer as a witness. And Williams in a wheelchair, stiff and emotionally distant.

"You'll be my wife," he had said, his voice as cold as the pen he handed me. "But this is a business arrangement. Nothing more."

I nodded, hiding the ache in my chest behind a smile. What could I have said? I've loved you since the day I saw you staring at the hospital ceiling, breathing but broken?

No. I had made a choice-to keep my identity hidden, to be the Sophia who helped him, not the daughter of the rival CEO on life support just two floors down.

Now I was Mrs. Williams. On paper.

But even paper had weight, and that weight followed me home.

The mansion Williams insisted I move into was beautiful-elegant and so very hollow. Staff moved around like shadows, trained never to make eye contact or question the new Mrs. My room was on the east wing.

His, far on the west. We were connected by marriage and separated by walls built of grief and pride.

Still, I didn't regret it. Every day, I saw changes in him.

He started using the wheelchair less and less, stubbornly refusing assistance as he learned to walk again with a cane.

His body healed faster than his heart, but the man I had fallen for was still there-buried under cynicism and betrayal. I knew it. I just had to reach him.

"Why are you always smiling at me?" he asked one morning, when I brought him his tea on the terrace.

"Because you're learning to walk again," I said. "You're fighting, and I admire that."

He stared at me with a suspicious look. "People admire money, they admire power. No one admires broken men."

"I do," I whispered, but I don't think he heard me-or maybe he pretended not to.

There were nights when the silence between us said more than words ever could. Dinners were a strange dance guarded conversation.

He never asked personal questions. Not about my family, or my past, or why I looked sad when I thought no one was watching.

And I never told him that sometimes after visiting my father-still hooked to machines, still unconscious-I would sit in the car and cry.

That I had no family left to confide in, and the man I was legally married to barely saw me.

But there were small moments, moments that clung to me like threads of hope.

One night, after a charity dinner he refused to attend, I returned home late to find a plate of warm food covered neatly on the dining table. Next to it, a short note in his sharp, slanted handwriting:

> You skipped dinner, eat.

No "please," no smiley faces. But it was something.

Another time, I found him watching me through the glass doors as I sat outside sketching designs for my next fashion collection.

When I looked up, he turned away quickly, pretending to adjust his cufflink. I said nothing-but my heart whispered everything.

Weeks passed, and the weight of my secret grew heavier.

One afternoon, we were seated in his study, reviewing the reports for Williams Holdings-part of our 'marriage duties,' as he called them.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed at the numbers. "Your financial analysis is solid. You're surprisingly capable."

"Surprisingly?" I teased, smirking. "You thought I was just a pretty face?"

He didn't answer immediately. Then: "No. But I didn't expect you to be useful."

"Thank you... I think."

His lips curled in something close to a smile. "Don't let it get to your head."

It was the closest thing to flirting we'd done since our wedding.

But that night, something shifted.

We crossed paths in the hallway-me in my robe, hair slightly damp from a late shower. He had just finished a physiotherapy session and leaned against his cane, his chest rising with effort.

We stared at each other longer than necessary.

"Can I ask you something?" he said with a low voice.

I nodded, with my heart fluttering.

"Why did you say yes to this marriage?"

I froze.

Because I love you.

Because I wanted to protect you and

because I couldn't let you drown in loneliness while I pretended not to care.

But I said none of that.

"Because I believe in second chances," I answered. "Even when people don't believe in themselves."

"Don't waste your faith on me, Sophia. I'm not the man I used to be."

"Maybe that's a good thing," I whispered, brushing past him. "The old you never noticed me anyway."

I didn't wait to see the confusion in his face. I couldn't.

Our contract marriage blurred into an intricate of business meetings, silent meals and truths left unsaid.

But it wasn't all cold.

Once, during a thunderstorm, the power went out briefly. I found him in the hallway, cane in hand, looking uncertain.

"Storms never used to bother me," he admitted. "But now... everything feels louder."

I reached for his hand without thinking. "Then let me stay until the noise stops."

He didn't pull away.

We stood there in silence, the thunder raging outside, his hand warm in mine.

And for a moment, we weren't contract-bound strangers. We were two broken people trying to rebuild from the ashes.

Still, I kept my secret.

I avoided hospital visits during hours he might notice. I kept my name off all medical paperwork. And I prayed that when the day came-the day he learned who I truly was-it wouldn't destroy the fragile thread we had begun to weave.

Because for all the silence and space between us... I was falling deeper.

And I feared he would hate me for it.

But love isn't logical. It's not tied to truth or clarity.

It grows.

And mine was blooming wildly... even under the lie.