When Stella dragged her suitcases into the townhouse foyer, she felt like a soldier returning from the front lines.

Julian was in the library again. He was typing furiously on a laptop. As soon as she entered, he slammed the lid shut.

"I got my stuff," Stella said, dropping her keys on the desk. "And I saw him. He saw the papers."

Julian looked at her. He saw the redness around her wrist where Bryce had grabbed her. His eyes darkened, shifting from gray to black.

"Good," was all he said.

He slid a thick cream envelope across the desk.

"We have a dinner invitation."

Stella opened it. The calligraphy was elegant. The Dalton Family Annual Charity Gala.

"They want to humiliate us," Stella said, reading the date. "It's tonight. Why would they invite us now?"

"They didn't," Julian said calmly. "This was sent to the 'Sterling Family' weeks ago. My stepmother forwarded it to me via courier an hour ago. She wants me to go and embarrass myself so she can further the argument that I'm incompetent. And the Daltons want to see the wreckage."

"If we don't go, we look weak," Stella realized.

"Precisely."

"I have nothing to wear," Stella said, gesturing to her suitcase. "My clothes are... not gala appropriate. And the creditors?"

"The creditors can't touch Trust assets," Julian lied smoothly. He pressed a button under his desk. Henderson appeared instantly, carrying a garment bag.

"My mother left some vintage pieces in storage," Julian explained. "Legally, they belong to the Trust, so I can't sell them to pay for anything, but you can wear them. Alter them if you need to."

Stella unzipped the bag. Inside was a black vintage Chanel gown. It was timeless, elegant, and reeked of old money.

Scene Jump: The Plaza Hotel Ballroom.

The camera flashes were blinding.

Stella stepped out of the car—Henderson had rented a Lincoln again—and unfolded Julian's wheelchair. She helped him transfer.

She wore the black dress. It fit her like a second skin. She had pulled her hair back into a severe bun, wearing no jewelry except the cheap wedding band. She looked like a avenging angel.

She pushed Julian onto the red carpet.

A hush fell over the crowd. The "Cursed Son" and the "Runaway Bride." It was the scandal of the decade.

Monica was standing near the entrance, wearing a flashy, sequined gold dress from the new season. It looked cheap next to Stella's vintage Chanel. Bryce stood behind her, holding a glass of scotch.

They approached.

"Stella!" Monica squealed, her smile tight and fake. "I thought you'd be hiding in a hole somewhere."

Bryce looked at Julian with open contempt. "Nice wheels, Sterling. Need a push?"

The people nearby giggled nervously.

Julian didn't flinch. He looked up at Bryce, his expression bored.

"I have my wife for that," Julian drawled. "Who do you have, Bryce? The bank?"

The giggle turned into genuine laughter from the crowd. Bryce flushed a deep, ugly red.

Monica's eyes narrowed. She took a step forward, stumbling slightly on her stilettos. Her champagne glass tipped.

It wasn't an accident. Stella saw the wrist flick. The liquid arched through the air, aiming straight for Stella's dress.

Julian saw it coming. He couldn't use his legs to dodge, and spinning the chair with perfect precision would reveal too much core strength.

Instead, he released the brake on the right wheel and threw his weight awkwardly to the side. The wheelchair lurched forward with a metallic clatter, cutting off Stella's path.

The champagne splashed across his tuxedo jacket, soaking the shoulder, instead of hitting Stella's silk gown.

"Oh!" Stella gasped, grabbing the handles to steady the chair. "Julian! Are you okay?"

Julian stopped the chair, looking ruffled but composed. His eyes were icy shards as he looked at Monica.

"Henderson," Julian said, his voice carrying over the sudden silence. "Send the bill for the dry cleaning to Mr. Dalton."

He looked at his shoulder, then at Stella. His voice softened. "Did it hit the dress?"

"No," Stella whispered. "You blocked it."

"Clumsy driving," Julian muttered. "My apologies."

Stella turned to Monica. She stepped out from behind the wheelchair.

"You always were sloppy, Monica," Stella said, her voice cutting through the room. "With your drinks, and with your men."

She grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. "Let's go, darling. The air here smells like desperation."

She wheeled him away. The crowd parted, making a wide path for them.

They found a quiet corner near the balcony. Julian looked up at her. There was a new expression in his eyes. Respect.

"You have claws," he said.

"I learned from the best," Stella replied, her hands still shaking slightly on the handles.

Julian's phone buzzed in his wet pocket. He checked it discreetly.

Nate: Nice block. Looked accidental enough. You just declared war on the Daltons. Fun.

Julian smirked.

The adrenaline crash hit them as soon as they entered the townhouse.

"Let me check your shoulder," Stella insisted. "That champagne might have been hot. Or sticky."

"It was cold champagne, Stella," Julian snapped. He wheeled himself backward, away from her. "Leave it."

He retreated to his study and locked the door. The click of the lock felt like a slap in the face.

Stella stood in the hallway, feeling the silence of the house wrap around her. She felt shut out. Again.

She wandered the empty rooms. In the back of the first floor, she found a room she hadn't seen before. It was filled with architectural models. Miniature skyscrapers, sleek retail stores with the logo L'Unico etched on the tiny glass fronts.

She touched one of the models. It was exquisite. He must be a fan, she thought. Or maybe he wanted to be an architect before the accident.

Later that night, a storm rolled in over Manhattan.

Thunder crashed directly overhead, shaking the old window panes.

CRACK.

The lights in the townhouse flickered and died. Pitch black.

Stella froze. She hated thunder. It reminded her of the night her parents died. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"Julian?" she called out.

No answer.

She fumbled for her phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the dust sheets like specters.

She made her way to the study. "Julian?"

Inside the study, Julian was standing.

He was reaching up to a high shelf behind the desk, trying to retrieve a backup battery for his secure server. The wifi had cut out, and he needed to maintain the connection. He heard the doorknob turn.

Shit.

He dropped.

He didn't have time to get back to the chair. He let gravity take him, crumpling to the floor just as the door creaked open. He dragged his legs behind him, contorting his body to look like he had fallen trying to reach something.

The flashlight beam swept the room and landed on him.

"Oh my god!" Stella screamed.

She rushed over, dropping the light. "Julian! Did you fall?"

Julian gritted his teeth, pressing his face against the Persian rug. "The security system... it runs on a separate circuit. I needed the battery from the shelf. I tried to... use the grabber tool."

"You idiot," Stella cried. She wrapped her arms around his torso. "Help me. On three."

She pulled.

He was dead weight. And he was heavy.

"You're... really heavy," Stella panted, straining to lift his chest off the floor. "For someone who doesn't walk, your back is... hard."

Julian stiffened. He had to stay limp. "Dead weight feels heavier, Stella. Physics. And I do pull-ups."

She managed to drag him toward the leather armchair. They were tangled together, limbs awkward, breathing heavy. Her face was inches from his.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room.

Stella saw his eyes. They weren't pained. They were dark, intense, dilated.

She touched his arm. Her fingers grazed his bicep. It was rock solid.

"Don't try to be a hero," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Call me next time. I'm here. I'm your legs, remember?"

Julian looked away. The guilt was a sharp knife in his gut. She was so sincere. So desperate to help him. And he was lying to her with every breath.

"I don't need a babysitter," he growled.

"You need a wife," Stella corrected.

The power came back on with a sudden zzzt. The lights blinded them.

Stella stepped back, realizing she was straddling his lap on the floor. She scrambled up, smoothing her pajamas.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"No," Julian said. "Just... leave me."

Stella nodded, hurt flashing in her eyes. She turned and left the room.

Julian sat on the floor for a long time. He looked at his arm where she had touched him. His skin felt like it was burning.

The next morning, the atmosphere in the kitchen was frigid.

Henderson came in, his left hand wrapped in an ACE bandage.

"I'm afraid I've sprained my wrist, Madam," Henderson lied smoothly. "Old injury acting up."

Stella looked up from her coffee. "Oh no. Do you need a doctor?"

"No, just rest," Henderson said. "But... I cannot assist Master Julian with his therapy bath this morning."

Stella choked on her coffee. "His... bath?"

Julian wheeled into the kitchen at that moment. He looked at Henderson, eyes narrowing. What are you doing?

"I can manage with a wet towel," Julian said coldly.

"The doctor was very specific, Sir," Henderson insisted. "You need the hot water circulation for your legs. To prevent further issues."

Stella looked at Julian. She saw the muscle ticking in his jaw. She thought it was pride. She thought he was embarrassed to be naked in front of her.

"I'll do it," Stella said. She stood up, putting on her 'brave face'. "We're married. It's fine. It's just... bodies."

Scene: The Master Bathroom.

Steam filled the air. The room was tiled in black marble, slick and hot.

Julian was in the tub. He was wearing thick, black compression leggings that went from his waist to his ankles. He claimed they were for "circulation," but in reality, they were to hide the muscle definition in his legs.

Stella tried not to stare at his chest. But it was impossible.

His upper body was magnificent. Broad shoulders, defined pectorals, a six-pack that looked carved from stone.

"You work out... with your arms?" Stella squeaked.

"Upper body strength is all I have," Julian lied, gripping the edges of the tub. He was terrified. Not of her seeing him, but of his body reacting to her.

Stella wetted a large sea sponge. "Lean forward."

She touched his back.

Julian flinched. Her touch was soft, but it sent an electric shock down his spine.

She began to scrub. Circular motions. Shoulders. Neck. Down the spine.

Julian closed his eyes. Think about baseball. Think about the quarterly earnings report. Think about tax law.

"Is the water too hot?" Stella asked, noticing his breathing had stopped.

"No," Julian grated out.

She moved the sponge to his chest. Her fingers grazed his nipple.

Julian's breath hitched.

She moved lower. Toward his stomach. Then she reached for his leg.

"I need to wash the leggings," she said innocently. "Or... under them?"

Julian felt the blood rushing south. He was a healthy, twenty-eight-year-old man, and his beautiful wife was touching him in a steaming bath. His "paralysis" didn't stop erections.

If she touched his thigh, she would feel the muscle tense. She would feel the heat. The compression gear could only hide so much.

"Stella," he warned.

She placed her hand on his thigh.

Snap.

Julian's control broke. He grabbed her wrist before she could squeeze. His grip was bruising.

He splashed water violently, covering his lap.

"That's enough!" he roared.

Stella jumped back, dropping the sponge. "What? Did I hurt you?"

"I said GET OUT!" Julian shouted, his voice echoing off the marble. "Leave me alone! I can finish!"

He needed her gone before he humiliated himself. Before he proved he wasn't the invalid he claimed to be.

Stella's eyes filled with tears. She looked at him—at the anger in his face—and thought she had disgusted him.

She turned and ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door.

Julian slammed his fist against the water.

"Damn it," he whispered. He looked down at his body, fully betrayed by his own biology.

He sank lower into the water, miserable and aroused, listening to his wife cry in the hallway.