I Married My Fiancees Paralyzed Sister

At the annual Met Galastyle charity auction, I wore the exact same bespoke tuxedo as my fiancée’s personal assistant.

Chase stood across from me, a smug, barely suppressed snicker pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, Lucas," he whispered, loud enough for the nearby photographers to catch. "You’re supposed to be a man of pedigree.

Why on earth are you wearing a knockoff?

And a cheap, bargainbin replica at that?" Cassandra, my fiancée, stared at me with unmasked disgust. "Your attire is utterly embarrassing tonight, Lucas.

Chase, you’ll be my escort for the evening." I stood perfectly still under the flashing lights of the ballroom.

I knew my best friend, who had gifted me the suit, would never buy a fake. He’d spent months coordinating with a legendary Savile Row designer to get it made.

There was only one logical explanation. A thief had entered my home. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice.

I simply turned away from Cassandra and walked toward the quietest corner of the ballroom, where her older sister sat alone in a polished titanium wheelchair. "Tonight," I said, offering a slight bow, "I would be honored to be your escort." In our world, the arrangement was absolute: a man of the Mercer family had to marry a woman of the Langford dynasty to secure the generational trust.

But the contract never specified which Langford daughter.

Beatrice Langford had lost the bitter family power struggle to her younger sister, Cassandra, only because a devastating car accident six months ago had left her paralyzed from the waist down.

What the Langfords didn't know was that I possessed a legacy of my own.

Beyond my family's declining real estate empire, I was the sole practitioner of a rare, nearmythical school of neuroregeneration—a lineage of precision microacupuncture known in whispered highsociety circles as "The Weaver." I had restored movement to patients on the brink of total paralysis.

A pair of damaged legs was nothing more than a puzzle waiting to be solved. … Three months into my engagement with Cassandra, my prospective fatherinlaw had insisted we attend this highprofile charity gala together to present a united front to the Wall Street press.

Before we left, my future inlaws had repeatedly lectured me about looking presentable, desperate to ensure I didn’t tarnish the pristine Langford brand.

By chance, the event fell on my birthday. My closest friend, Toby, had surprised me with a customtailored, bespoke tuxedo.

I had hoped to step into the grand ballroom and finally feel like I belonged in this glittering, superficial world.

Instead, the moment I walked through the heavy mahogany doors of the Plaza Hotel, I saw him.

Chase, Cassandra’s twentyfouryearold personal assistant, was wearing the exact same midnightblue tuxedo with silkfaille lapels. We were identical. Except we weren't.

As I approached him, my eyes locked onto the drape of his jacket. It was flawless. The fabric had a liquid sheen, the stitching invisible. Then I looked down at my own lapels.

The fabric was stiff, the cut slightly off, the lining cheap polyester. Mine was a blatant, embarrassing imitation.

Chase covered his mouth, letting out a soft, theatrical giggle. "Honestly, Lucas, you have a family name to uphold.

How could you show up in a replica that looks like it was bought off a discount rack?" He adjusted his cuffs, making sure the diamonds on his links caught the light. "An event this important, and you dress like this?

It’s a slap in the face to Cassandra." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a toxic purr. "If you couldn't afford a real custom piece, you should have just asked.

I’m sure Cassandra would have bought you something passable." I ignored the bait. "Where did you get that suit, Chase?" "Cassandra bought it for me, of course," he said, puffing out his chest. "She was terrified I’d look as provincial as you, so she had it imported." He emphasized the word provincial with a sickening, triumphant grin.

Cassandra stepped up beside him, her expression hardening the moment she saw me. "Did you take my suit, Cassandra?" I asked quietly.

Her face flushed with immediate outrage. "Lucas, watch your tongue. It’s a tuxedo.

Do you honestly think I can’t afford to buy one for my staff?" "This specific tuxedo was handcrafted by a master tailor in London.

It is a oneofakind piece," I replied, my voice steady. "Toby pulled every favor he had to secure it for my birthday.

If the real one is on your assistant's back, then someone took it from my closet and replaced it with this trash." Cassandra let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You are being utterly ridiculous.

I am a Langford. Why would I ever resort to petty theft? I didn't realize you were this pathetic, Lucas." Toby, who had just entered the ballroom, rushed over to my side.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes darting between me and Chase. "Wait... Lucas, what is going on? That’s the tuxedo I got you. Why is he wearing it?

And why are you in a knockoff?" I kept my gaze fixed on my fiancée. "You’ll have to ask Cassandra." "Toby," Cassandra snapped, "you bought Lucas a fake, and now you’re trying to pin your cheapness on me!" "I have never bought a counterfeit in my life!

Especially not for Lucas!" Toby, furious, grabbed the hem of Chase’s jacket. "This is the exact garment I picked up from the courier!" "Get your hands off him!" With a sharp crack, Cassandra’s palm struck Toby’s cheek.

The sound echoed in the immediate radius of the lobby.

I watched Toby’s cheek bloom into a violent red, and a cold, dangerous fury ignited in my chest. "Cassandra!" I stepped forward, my fist clenching, but Toby grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and pleading. "Lucas, don't," he muttered, his voice shaking. "It’s fine.

I’m fine. Please, don't ruin things with her.

We can't afford to anger the Langfords." Chase watched the interaction with a smug satisfaction he barely bothered to hide, though he quickly lowered his eyes to play the martyr. "Cassandra, maybe I should just go change.

I don't want to be the reason you and your fiancé have a falling out.

If Lucas wants the suit so badly, he can have it." "Don't waste your breath on him," Cassandra said, brushing a hand over Chase’s shoulder. "He’s just a classless, insecure boy from a family of failing developers.

He doesn't know any better." She turned her icy glare back to me. "Your presence here is an embarrassment. Chase will be my guest.

Don't speak to me for the rest of the night." She slipped her hand through Chase’s arm, and they walked away, leaving us in the shadow of the grand staircase.

I led Toby into the private holding room down the hall, waving over a server to bring us a bucket of ice.

Wrapping a handful of cubes in a cloth, I gently pressed it against his swollen cheek. My chest burned with a mixture of rage and guilt. "I'm going to make her pay for that, Toby.

I swear to God." "It’s just a slap, Lucas. It’ll fade by tomorrow," Toby said, trying to offer a reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just don't fight her.

Your dad's entire restructuring loan is dependent on this marriage.

We can't fight the Langfords." "She set me up," I whispered, my teeth grinding. "She stole my suit to humiliate me in public, and then she laid a hand on you.

I won't let this go." But Toby’s words lingered, heavy and suffocating.

I remembered my father sitting in his study three months ago, his hands trembling as he held a glass of whiskey. “Lucas, the Langfords approached us. They want an alliance.

They are willing to inject enough capital to save our entire portfolio and expand us nationwide.

The only condition is that you marry into their family.” “Why us?” I had asked, skeptical. “New York is swimming with eligible bachelors from families ten times wealthier than ours.” “Superstition,” my father had sighed. “Their patriarch believes in oldworld cosmic alignments.

An astrologer told him that the Langford dynasty will crumble in this generation unless a daughter marries a son of the Mercer bloodline.

It’s foolish, but to them, it’s life or death.” “It’s absurd.

I’ve never even met Cassandra.” “If you don't do this, Lucas... everything we’ve built for three generations will go into foreclosure.

We’ll be ruined.” Looking at my father’s tearstained face, I had yielded. I had no one in my life, no great love to protect.

I figured a marriage of convenience was a small price to pay to save my family. When I first met Cassandra, she seemed cold but competent. I figured we could coexist.

But her infatuation with her assistant had quickly crossed the line of professional boundaries.

I recalled a afternoon a month ago when I was riding in the back of Cassandra’s town car. Chase was in the front passenger seat.

I was nursing a severe migraine, suffocating in the stagnant air of the cabin. When I reached to roll down the window, Cassandra snapped at me. “Leave it.

Chase gets hot easily, and I have the climate control set perfectly for him. If you open the window, you’ll ruin the air.” “I’m nauseous, Cassandra.

I need some air.” “Then close your eyes and deal with it. It’s a short drive. Stop being so dramatic.” Before I could reply, she locked the windows from the master console.

When the car finally pulled up to our destination, I stumbled out and threw up on the pavement.

Instead of checking on me, Cassandra had immediately inspected the side of her car to ensure none of her pristine paintwork had been soiled.

I had tolerated the disrespect because I believed it was simply the price of a transaction. But tonight, the transaction was void.

The Langfords needed a Mercer to secure their legacy. But Cassandra wasn't the only Langford daughter.

Leaving Toby in the lounge, I walked back into the ballroom and headed straight for the dim corner where Beatrice sat. "Beatrice," I said, looking down at her. "Do you have a companion tonight?" She blinked, startled by my sudden presence, before glancing down at her lap. "No.

I usually keep to myself these days." "Then tonight, I am your date." Beatrice stared at me, her brow furrowing. "Aren't you engaged to my sister?" "I am," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "But I can easily become yours." She let out a dry, bitter laugh. "You're losing your mind, Lucas." "You know the terms of the family trust," I murmured, leaning down slightly. "The Langford heir must marry a Mercer.

Do you have no desire to reclaim your birthright?" Beatrice looked down at her useless legs, the spark of fire in her eyes briefly dimmed by grief. "My father will never hand the keys of the empire to a woman who cannot even stand on her own." "What if I can heal you?" She froze, her breath catching. "What?" "If I make you walk again, will you have the courage to take back what belongs to you?" "If I hadn't survived that crash intact, Cassandra wouldn't even be in the conversation," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "The throne was always meant for me." "Then let's make a deal.

I heal you, and you become my shield." "And if you fail?" "Then my life is yours to dispose of." Beatrice studied my face, searching for any sign of deceit.

Finding none, she leaned back, a cold, calculating smile gracing her lips. "Very well, Lucas.

I'll take that bet." I stepped behind her wheelchair and began pushing her toward the center of the glittering ballroom.

Within seconds, Cassandra and Chase intercepted us, their faces twisted in amusement. "Lucas?

What on earth are you doing with my sister?" Cassandra asked, her voice dripping with condescension. "Since you found yourself a new escort, I figured I should do the same." "So you chose the cripple?" Chase chuckled softly beside her. "Well, Ms.

Langford, I suppose a man wearing a knockoff tuxedo belongs with a brokendown partner. It’s a fitting match." Beatrice didn't flinch.

She slowly looked Chase up and down, her gaze colder than ice. "Interesting. Looking at the two of you, I would have assumed the fake was the one standing next to my sister.

I suppose natural elegance is something you're born with, whereas certain street rats can be dressed in the finest silks and still smell of the gutter." Chase’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. "How dare you!" He tugged on Cassandra’s arm. "Cassandra, your sister is humiliating me!" As Cassandra opened her mouth to lash out, Beatrice raised a hand, cutting her off. "What?

Are you going to slap me too, Cassandra? Go ahead.

Let the press have a field day with the Langford sisters brawling at a charity gala." Cassandra clenched her jaw, pulling Chase back. "Forget it.

We don't waste our time on charity cases." She turned her venomous gaze to me. "But Lucas, you are still my fiancé.

Parading around with my sister is a public insult to me." "And replacing my bespoke wardrobe with cheap replicas to dress your assistant is a compliment?" I retorted, stepping closer. "If people laugh tonight, Cassandra, they won't laugh because I can't afford a real suit.

They will laugh because the great Cassandra Langford is too cheap to dress her own fiancé properly, choosing instead to lavish her resources on her help." Cassandra’s chest heaved with fury. "You—!" "What?

Want to try slapping me too?" I asked quietly. "Furthermore, let me make one thing clear. From this moment on, I will be attending to Beatrice.

I am taking over as her personal physician to repair the nerve damage in her legs." Cassandra let out a loud, mocking laugh. "You? A doctor?

The finest neurosurgeons in Switzerland couldn't fix her spine, and you think your little family remedies will do the trick?" "Western medicine has its limits," I said calmly. "I practice a different art." Cassandra sneered at Beatrice. "You're actually going to let this fraud touch you?

Don't cry to Father when he leaves you completely paralyzed." "Being dead would be preferable to living under your shadow, Cassandra," Beatrice replied smoothly. "Fine.

But let me remind you, Lucas—if you happen to kill my sister with your little needles, my father will ensure you spend the rest of your life in a dark cell." "I welcome the challenge." At that moment, Virginia, Cassandra’s mother, swept into the circle, her face tight with irritation. "Lucas, there you are!

I have been looking for you everywhere. Why are you lingering in the corner with Beatrice instead of standing by Cassandra’s side? And what in heaven's name are you wearing?

Are you deliberately trying to embarrass our family?" "If you find me that embarrassing, Mrs.

Langford, you are more than welcome to call off the engagement," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "No one is forcing your daughter to marry me." Without waiting for her reply, I wheeled Beatrice toward the exit.

Behind us, Virginia’s voice rose in a shrill screech. "Did he just walk away from me? The nerve of that boy!

I will ensure his father’s business is ruined by morning!" Cassandra’s cruel laughter followed us into the night. "Don't worry, Mother. Let him play doctor.

When he fails and kills her, Father will destroy him for us." We ignored them, stepping out into the cool New York air and boarding a waiting town car.

Once we arrived at Beatrice’s private penthouse, I unlocked a velvetlined rosewood box containing my family’s heirloom silver needles.

I looked into her eyes. "Do you trust me, Beatrice?" Without a single moment of hesitation, she nodded. "Start." "It will take thirteen days," I said, gently rolling up the hem of her trousers. "On the thirteenth day, you will stand." I paused, looking at her. "Your mother... she is still in a vegetative state at Mount Sinai, correct?" "Yes," Beatrice whispered, a shadow of profound grief crossing her face.

Beatrice and Cassandra were halfsisters.

Six months ago, a brutal car crash had not only shattered Beatrice’s spine but had plunged her mother, Miriam—the true matriarch of the Langford fortune—into a deep, irreversible coma.

Conveniently, Virginia and Cassandra had seized control of the family estate immediately afterward. "If you trust me," I said, "I can wake her up too." Thirteen days later, the grand ballroom of the St.

Regis was decorated for my formal engagement party to Cassandra.

I arrived wearing a meticulously tailored, modern highcollar obsidian suit, a sharp contrast to the western formalwear of the guests.

When I entered the reception hall, I found Cassandra and Chase already holding court near the champagne tower.

Chase was dressed in an identical obsidian suit, though his was adorned with ostentatious gold embroidery along the collar.

To any outsider, it was impossible to tell which of us was the groom. Cassandra smiled mockingly as I approached. "Lucas, look. Chase is acting as your best man today.

Isn't that wonderful?" "A best man who dresses identically to the groom?" I asked, my voice dry. "And this is an engagement party, not a wedding.

Why would I need a best man?" "Oh, don't be so sensitive," Cassandra dismissed with a wave of her hand. "It looks festive.

Stop being so incredibly petty." "I’m not petty at all," I replied, a slow smile gracing my lips. "In fact, I don't care what he wears.

Because I’m not the one getting engaged to you today." Cassandra’s smile faltered. "What are you talking about? If you aren't marrying me, who else would you marry?

Beatrice?" "Exactly." I stepped back as the double doors of the ballroom swung open.

I wheeled Beatrice directly toward her father, Robert Langford, who was standing with a group of major shareholders. "Mr.

Langford," I announced, my voice echoing across the silent hall. "I am ready to fulfill the Mercer alliance.

But the woman I am marrying is Beatrice." Cassandra rushed forward, her face contorting with rage. "Are you insane? Beatrice is a useless cripple!

She can't inherit the firm, and she certainly can't lead this family!" "Who says Beatrice is a cripple?" I asked.

Before the eyes of the city's elite, Beatrice placed her hands on the armrests of her chair. With slow, deliberate grace, she rose to her feet.

At that exact second, Robert’s personal assistant burst through the doors, pale and breathless. "Sir! Mr. Langford! Your wife... Miriam has just woken up!"