Joyce woke up on the third day after I married into the Grant family—the Centennial Royal Sapphire Necklace had truly worked a miracle.

Overjoyed, my father Kenneth called me, his voice gentler than ever before. “Nova, thanks to you, Joyce is awake! When can you come home for a visit?”

Home?

I laughed coldly and hung up. That place had ceased to be my home long ago.

Yet trouble found me anyway. A week later, on my mother’s birthday, I returned to the family house.

When I mentioned the visit to Grant beforehand, he showed no reaction, only a faint “Mm.”

Entering the living room, I found Joyce on the sofa, dressed in designer clothes, her makeup flawless as she bossed the servants around. Seeing me, her eyes flashed with jealousy and venom.

“Well, if it isn’t the Nova family’s great heroine—Mrs. Grant! What’s wrong? Life with a cripple not treating you well, so you’ve come to mooch off us?”

Ignoring her, I headed for the kitchen to see my mother. She stuck out her foot to trip me, but I was ready and steadied myself.

“Joyce, behave,” I said coldly, meeting her gaze.

“Behave?” She laughed as if at the world’s greatest joke. “Nova, who do you think you are, lecturing me? Don’t imagine marrying into the Grant family makes you special. He’s just a cripple who might drop dead any day! Believe me, one word from Stephen, and you’ll be tossed into the street—kicked out of Ashford for good!”

“Is that so?” A frigid voice cut from the doorway.

Everyone froze.

There sat Grant in his wheelchair, pushed by a tall bodyguard. He wore a black tailored suit that made his complexion seem even paler, but his deep-set eyes were like ice-forged blades—impossible to hold.

Why was he here? Joyce hadn’t expected it either; her face blanched before she simpered, “Mr. Grant, what brings you here? Stephen really should have warned us…”

Her words died under his icy interjection. “What is Stephen, that he deserves mention alongside me?”

His gaze swept over Joyce, then settled on me, softening slightly. “Come here.”

After a hesitation, I walked over. He took my hand—his touch was cold yet reassuring.

“Since when does anyone else lecture my wife?” He looked at Joyce, the chill in his eyes dropping the room’s temperature. “Miss Nova, it seems a car crash hasn’t taught you prudence.”

Joyce trembled, speechless.

Just then, Stephen arrived. His eyes darkened instantly at the sight of Grant holding my hand. “Grant, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take my wife home,” Grant stated flatly, brooking no argument.

Stephen turned to me, disappointment and pain in his eyes. “Nova, look what you’ve become. For money, you’d marry someone like this!”

Suddenly weary, I faced him. “Mr. Stephen, what I’ve become is none of your concern. From now on, have some self-respect.”

Turning away, I said to Grant, “Let’s go.”

“Alright.”

The bodyguard wheeled him out, and I walked beside, leaving that suffocating place—once my home.

The car ride back was quiet. Finally, I asked, “Why… why did you come?”

Still gazing out the window, his voice soft, he replied, “My wife was wronged. As her husband, I couldn’t just stand by.”

My heart fluttered inexplicably. That simple statement was the warmest shelter I’d known in over twenty years.

Living with Grant proved more peaceful than I’d imagined. Most of the time, he was quiet—handling business in his study or sitting by the window. We coexisted like careful roommates, staying out of each other’s way.

But after that day, something shifted quietly. He began having my favorite dishes prepared. When I read at night, the housekeeper would bring warm milk on his orders. These small gestures were like rays of sunlight, piercing the ice around my heart.

Until one night, I rose to find the study light still on. On impulse, I went to remind him to rest.

The door was ajar. Through the crack, I saw something that shocked me to my core: Grant—the man who relied on a wheelchair, whose legs were crippled—was standing.

He stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, tall and solid—nothing like the crippled man he was supposed to be.

For a moment, my mind went blank. I stumbled back, bumping into something with a soft clatter.

“Who’s there?”

The study door flung open.

There stood Grant, all trace of pallor and fraility gone. Instead, a sharp, dangerous energy radiated from him.

Our eyes locked.

I saw the shock in his gaze—and something lethal flickering behind it.

My legs weakened.

Quickly, he regained his composure, stepping aside to let me in before shutting the door quietly.

“You saw everything?”

I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“But your leg…”

“It was never crippled,” he said, calm and measured. “The accident four years ago left me injured, not disabled. I’ve been pretending all this time.”

“Why?”

He walked to the sofa, sat, and poured himself a drink. “To catch a bigger fish.”

He didn’t elaborate, but I didn’t need him to—this was clearly part of something bigger, something dangerous.

“Scared?” He looked at me, a self-mocking smile touching his lips. “Of course you are. Who’d want to be with someone whose hands are stained with blood, whose whole life is a web of schemes? The agreement can end early. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of—you won’t want for anything.”

I looked at him, at the vicious scar across his face, at the fleeting loneliness in his eyes.

And suddenly, I remembered that day outside Nova’s family house. His cold expression, and yet—he’d still ordered hot tea for me.

I shook my head.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He stared, stunned.

“We’re husband and wife, aren’t we?” Gathering my courage, I met his gaze. “Even if it’s just a contract, I’ll play my part until it ends.”

He studied me for a long moment—so long I thought he might refuse.

Then, he smiled.

The scar seemed to soften with the expression.

“Alright,” he said. “Nova, this is your choice.”

From that day on, the wall between us vanished.

He stopped hiding things from me. He talked about company matters, took me to private gatherings, let me in.

That was when I realized Grant’s influence in Ashford ran deeper and darker than I’d ever imagined.

The “bigger fish” he was after was named Carl—a rising power in Ashford, and the man behind the crash four years ago.

I stood by him. I navigated the schemes, watched him strategize, watched the net draw tight, step by step.

And slowly, I began to see him clearly.

He wasn’t the monster rumors made him out to be.

His ruthlessness was reserved for his enemies.

But his tenderness, however rare, could undo you completely.