The lawyer began drafting the impromptu agreement, his pen scratching loudly against the paper.

Edward turned to Hank. "Get out of my sight. Take the girl. Get her out of the country, or so help me God..."

Hank looked at Elena, then at the door. He grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her out. He left in disgrace, the golden boy tarnished forever.

Bernadine followed him, casting one last venomous look at Annette. "You'll regret this," she hissed.

"I doubt it," Annette replied.

Edward sighed, rubbing his temples. "I will summon Dereck." He looked at the clock. "He's in the West Wing. Rarely comes out. It's... a process."

"I'll go with you," Annette said. "We need to announce the engagement change tonight. The guests are waiting."

"No," Edward said. "Go freshen up. Fix your makeup. I'll deal with my son. He can be... difficult."

Annette nodded. She grabbed Lucas's arm and they left the library.

In the hallway, the music was still playing, jarringly cheerful. The contrast between the polite society waltz and the bloodbath that had just occurred in the library made Annette feel dizzy.

Lucas pulled her into a quiet alcove, behind a large potted fern.

"Annie, are you insane?" Lucas asked, grabbing her shoulders. His eyes were wide with panic. "Dereck Bolton? He's... he's a vegetable, Annie. A vegetable!"

"He's not a vegetable, Luke. He's paralyzed," she corrected.

"He's on painkillers all day. Rumor says he has months to live. Liver failure. Kidneys. He's a sinking ship."

Annette looked around to ensure they were alone. She leaned in close.

"That's exactly why, Luke," she whispered.

Lucas looked confused.

"I don't want a husband," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I want the Adams-Bolton alliance. I need the protection of the Bolton name to secure our assets against the coming... market shifts."

"If I marry Hank, I have to fight Bernadine every day. I have to fight his mistresses. I have to fight for every penny."

"If I marry Dereck," she continued, her eyes cold and pragmatic, "I wait a few months... or a year. I play the devoted nurse."

"And then?" Lucas asked.

"Then nature takes its course," Annette said. "And I'm a young, wealthy widow with control of the Bolton Trust. No one to tell me what to do. Total freedom."

Lucas stared at her, shocked. "You sound... ruthless."

"You've changed," he said softly.

"Survival changes you," she replied ambiguously. "I'm doing this for us. For the family."

Above them, on the shadowed balcony of the second floor, hidden by the heavy velvet drapes, a figure sat in the dark.

Dereck Bolton sat in his wheelchair, his hand resting on the joystick. He had been making his silent, nightly patrol of the upper floors-a habit he'd developed to monitor the manor's security blind spots-when the hushed, urgent voices from the alcove below caught his attention.

He listened to the girl-Annette Adams-outline her plan. She wanted him for his name. She wanted him for his money. And most of all, she wanted him dead.

He lowered his head. A smirk played on his lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf who had just spotted a rabbit entering its den.

"A wealthy widow," he mouthed silently.

He turned his wheelchair around, the motor humming silently.

"Let's see if she can handle the husband first."

Edward marched towards the West Wing, his footsteps heavy with anger and impatience. The air grew cooler as he crossed the threshold; the heating system in this part of the manor was notoriously unreliable, a problem Edward had never bothered to fix.

A servant, Arthur, stepped out of the shadows. He was a nondescript man, balding and quiet, but he blocked the hallway with surprising solidity.

"Master Dereck is resting, sir," Arthur said. "It's a bad day. The pain is..."

"I don't care if he's in a coma. Wake him up," Edward barked. He pushed past Arthur and threw open the double doors to the study.

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp. The smell of medicinal herbs-acrid and bitter-hung heavy in the air.

Dereck was positioned by the window, his back to the door. A thick wool blanket covered his legs. His head was slumped forward slightly.

"Father," Dereck's voice was raspy, weak. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You're getting married," Edward announced bluntly.

Dereck turned the chair slowly. His face was pale, his cheekbones sharp, dark circles painted expertly under his eyes. He looked like death warmed over.

"To whom? The nurse?" Dereck mocked, coughing into a handkerchief.

"Annette Adams. Hank ruined it. You're fixing it."

Dereck feigned surprise. He raised a shaking hand to his chest. "Hank's leftovers? I have some pride left, Father."

"You have nothing!" Edward shouted. "Except this roof over your head and the medicine I pay for. You are a drain on this family, Dereck."

"Marry her, and I sign the Trust over to you."

Dereck paused. He let a glimmer of greed enter his eyes. "The full Trust? And the voting rights?"

"Yes. Just sign the papers and show up at the gala. Tonight."

"She wants me dead, you know," Dereck said cryptically.

Edward frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Just a feeling," Dereck corrected himself. "Fine. I'll do it. For the money."

Edward let out a breath of relief. "Good. Get dressed. Use the... motorized chair. Try to look alive."

Edward turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur locked the door. The click echoed in the silence.

Dereck sat still for a moment. Then, he threw the blanket off his legs.

He stood up.

He didn't struggle. He didn't wobble. He rose with the fluid grace of a predator. He stretched his tall frame, his spine cracking audibly. The "raspy" voice was gone.

"She wants a widow's life," Dereck mused to Arthur, walking over to the wardrobe. His stride was long and powerful.

"It seems the Adams girl is more interesting than the reports suggested," Arthur said, handing him a tuxedo.

"She's calculating," Dereck said, pulling on the shirt. "She thinks I'm a safe bet. A stepping stone."

He reached into a hidden compartment in the drawer and pulled out a slim, black holster. He strapped it under his arm, covering it with the tuxedo jacket.

"Let's go, Arthur," Dereck said, checking his reflection. The pale makeup made him look ghostly, but his eyes were sharp as steel.

"I have a wedding to attend."

Annette re-entered the ballroom. She had reapplied her lipstick and fixed her hair. She looked perfect.

Rumors were already circulating. People had seen Hank leave. They had seen the lawyer. The tension in the room was palpable.

Lucas signaled the band to stop. The music died away with a discordant screech.

Edward took the microphone on the stage. He was sweating slightly under the lights.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, his voice booming. "A slight change in plans tonight."

The crowd murmured. Heads turned. Where was Hank?

"The Adams-Bolton alliance is stronger than ever," Edward declared. "I am proud to announce the engagement of Annette Adams to my eldest son..."

The double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.

Dereck rolled in.

He was in a sleek, black motorized wheelchair. He was dressed in a sharp tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was pale, his expression one of bored detachment.

The crowd gasped. Most of them hadn't seen him in years. They remembered the accident. They expected a monster. Instead, they saw a tragic, beautiful prince.

"...Dereck Bolton," Edward finished.

Silence. Then, polite, confused applause rippled through the room.

Annette walked towards him across the dance floor. It felt like a mile. She kept her eyes on him.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so. Better looking than Hank, with sharper features and an intensity that Hank lacked.

"Hello, fiancé," she whispered as she reached him, bending down to his level so she wouldn't tower over him.

Dereck looked at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He subtly shifted his weight, using the armrest of the chair to create a fraction of an inch more space between his torso and her approaching form. She didn't notice the maneuver, attributing his stiffness to discomfort with the public spectacle. "You have terrible taste," he murmured.

Annette laughed, a light, tinkling sound for the cameras. She placed her hand on his knee-the "paralyzed" one-to pose for a photo.

Under the expensive, thick wool of his trousers, she felt something.

Muscle. Unnaturally hard, rigid muscle, not the soft, wasted flesh she'd expected. It felt like stone beneath the fabric.

She frowned slightly. A paralyzed leg should be soft. Atrophied. This felt like a limb locked in a permanent, powerful spasm.

Spasms? she thought. Or severe spasticity? The medical reports mentioned it. This must be what it felt like.

Dereck flinched. It was microscopic, a tiny tightening of the jaw, but she saw it.

"Smile, Dereck. We're on camera," she hissed through her teeth, dismissing the anomaly.

Dereck offered a cynical, crooked smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

Cameras flashed. The image of the Beauty bending over the Beast was captured forever.

In the corner, Bernadine watched, gripping a champagne flute so hard the stem snapped in her hand.

"Shall we dance?" Annette asked, knowing he couldn't.

"Lead the way," Dereck said, tapping the joystick.

She walked beside him as he wheeled towards the center of the floor. They were a spectacle. A scandal. And they were united against the world.