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,