My Crippled Husband Is a Secret Billionaire

The silence in St. Patrick's Cathedral wasn't peaceful. It was heavy. It was a physical weight, pressing down on Stella's shoulders, heavier than the twenty pounds of silk and lace dragging from her waist.

She stood alone at the altar.

Three hundred people were watching her back. She could feel their gazes like tiny pinpricks, itching against her skin. The officiant, a kindly old man with bushy eyebrows, cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceilings, a sharp crack that made Stella flinch.

Buzz.

The phone clutched in her white-knuckled hand vibrated. It was the third time in two minutes.

Stella didn't want to look. She knew. Somewhere in the deep, primal part of her gut that processed fear before her brain could catch up, she knew. But her thumb moved anyway, sliding the screen unlock.

Bryce: I can't do this. Monica needs me. I'm sorry.

The world didn't stop. It didn't spin. It just... sharpened.

The smell of the lilies on the altar suddenly became cloying, smelling like a funeral home. The marble floor beneath her heels felt like ice. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, hot and acidic.

Monica. Her maid of honor. The woman who had zipped up this dress three hours ago and told her she looked beautiful.

"Stella?"

The voice came from the front pew. Mrs. Dalton. Bryce's mother.

Stella turned. Her movements were stiff, mechanical, like a doll with rusted joints. Mrs. Dalton was rushing toward her, her face arranged in a mask of performative concern, but her eyes—her eyes were cold. Hard.

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Dalton whispered, loud enough for the first five rows to hear. She reached out, her manicured claws digging into Stella's bare arm. "He called me. He said he felt... suffocated. Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on that little career of yours..."

The words hit Stella like a physical slap.

Suffocated?

She had worked two jobs to pay for the deposit on their apartment. She had built his portfolio. She had ironed his shirts this morning while he was allegedly "getting ready with the guys."

Rage, sudden and white-hot, replaced the nausea.

Stella looked at the hand gripping her arm. She looked at the crowd—the whispers were starting now, a low hum of gossip that would be all over the Upper East Side by dinner.

"Let go of me," Stella said. Her voice was low, unrecognizable to her own ears.

"Don't make a scene, Stella," Mrs. Dalton hissed, her smile tightening. "We'll handle the press. You just need to—"

Stella ripped her arm away. The friction burned her skin.

She reached up and grabbed the intricate lace veil pinned to her hair. It had cost two thousand dollars. It had taken three fittings to get right. She tore it off. Pins scraped against her scalp, drawing a tiny bead of blood, but she didn't feel the pain. She only felt the need to breathe.

She threw the veil onto the pristine marble floor.