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.

They didn't dance. Obviously.

Annette wheeled Dereck away from the suffocating crowd, out through the French doors to the garden terrace. The night air was cool, a relief after the heat of the ballroom.

They were finally alone.

Annette dropped the smile instantly. She leaned against the stone railing, looking out at the dark gardens.

"Thank you for agreeing," she said.

Dereck adjusted his cuffs. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for the Trust."

"Honest. I like that," Annette said. She turned to face him.

"So, what's the plan?" Dereck asked, watching her closely.

"We stay married," she said. "You get your money. I get my safety."

"And when I die?" Dereck asked.

The question hung in the cool air.

Annette froze. "What?"

"Everyone says I'm dying. Isn't that why you picked me?" he pressed. His voice was smooth, lacking the rasp he used with his father.

Annette recovered quickly. "I picked you because you aren't Hank."

"And because you have a nice face," she added, deflecting.

Dereck chuckled darkly. "Don't get attached, sweetheart."

"I won't," she promised.

"I need to move my things to the West Wing tonight," she stated abruptly.

"Tonight? Impatient?" Dereck raised an eyebrow.

"Safety," she said. "Bernadine will try to poison my coffee tomorrow morning if I stay in the main house."

Dereck looked at her. He saw a flash of genuine fear in her eyes. It wasn't an act. She really knew what Bernadine was capable of.

"Fine," he said. "But stay out of my study. And the basement."

"Deal," she said. "I'll stick to the bedroom."

Dereck hid a smile at the accidental double entendre. "Let's go sign the papers."

They returned inside. The lawyer had the documents ready.

Hank watched from the shadows, holding a fresh drink, his eyes red and angry.

Annette signed with a flourish.

Dereck took the pen. His hand was steady. He signed Dereck Bolton.

The marriage was legal. The fate was sealed.