You Called Me A Cripple: He Called Me His Wife

For four years of marriage, my husband, Julian Crawford, had avoided me, repulsed by my crippled legs, never once willing to touch me.

And yet, in cruel contrast, my body betrayed me, my desires spiraling out of control.

During a gynecological exam, under the hands of a stranger—a male doctor—I lost control, soft, broken sounds slipping from my lips.

Outside the consultation room, my husband stood beside the woman he had never forgotten, Vanessa Whitmore, holding her in plain sight as he called me a "useless burden."

The doctor adjusted my skirt for me, his fingertips brushing slowly along the side of my thigh.

Then, in a low voice, he asked, "Do you want me to help you?"

......

"Ah—"

A soft, breathy moan echoed through the dining hall, drawing a wave of startled, judgmental glances.

I, Evelyn Ashford, didn't seem to notice. My eyes were locked on the phone screen in my hands.

A waitress leaned in, voice low with awkward restraint. "Ma'am, please don't play inappropriate videos in the restaurant…"

I looked up blankly, the pain spilling into my voice. "The man in that video… is my husband."

The room fell silent.

Even the disdain on the waitress's face softened into something closer to pity.

She had clearly noticed how utterly different the woman in the video looked from me.

I forced myself to ignore the stares and lowered my gaze back to the screen.

The video kept playing.

A stranger straddled my husband, her soft, broken moans spilling out in fragments.

Just as I froze, another message popped up. "Hello, I'm Vanessa Whitmore. You've heard of me, haven't you?"

That name—Vanessa—was far too familiar.

She was the woman Julian had never been able to forget.

"In all these years, has he ever touched you? With your condition, what exactly makes you think you can keep a man?"

I stared at Julian's face on the screen.

His head tilted back, eyes closed, his hand gripping the woman's waist, completely lost in it.

I had never seen that expression on him before.

In four years of marriage, even holding me had felt like an obligation to him. Most nights, he didn't even bother coming home.

Even our fourth anniversary—the one we had planned—ended with me waiting alone from noon until well past midnight.

I used to believe that if I stayed long enough, he would eventually fall in love with me.

Now I knew better. It had all been nothing more than a foolish illusion.

It felt like something heavy was crushing my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

Tears spilled uncontrollably as I gripped the blanket over my legs, my knuckles tightening until the blood drained from them.

I didn't know how long I had been sitting there until a waitress finally came over to tell me the restaurant was closing. The last sliver of hope inside me collapsed completely.

It was already past midnight, and getting a cab was nearly impossible. I had no choice but to make my own way home.

I pushed my wheelchair forward inch by inch, struggling along the quiet streets.

The restaurant wasn't even that far from my place, yet it still took me nearly five hours to get back.

By the time I arrived, daylight had already broken.

And my husband was nowhere to be found.

A hollow laugh slipped from my lips as I looked down at my unresponsive legs.

"Of course," I murmured. "Someone like me… why would Julian ever love me?"

Just then, a sharp ringtone cut through the silence.

My hands ached from pushing the wheelchair for so long, but I forced myself to answer.

"Hello, Miss Ashford," a polite voice said. "You have a gynecological follow-up appointment scheduled for 9 a.m. today. Please make sure to arrive on time."

The sunlight outside had already grown harsh. I froze for a moment before the memory came back to me.

After all these years of marriage, Julian had never touched me. Even now, I was still a virgin.

But when I thought about the way my body had been reacting lately, a flush of shame crept in as I instinctively pressed my legs together.

I couldn't even stand. I had never experienced anything like that before. So why… were those urges inside me so intense?

The private hospital offered excellent service, even arranging transportation for patients.

Sitting in my wheelchair, I took a slow, steady breath as I looked at the door to the consultation room.

But the moment I saw what was inside, I froze again.

"A male doctor?"

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Panic surged, and I quickly backed out of the room, glancing at the doorplate to make sure I hadn't made a mistake.

"You're in the right place, Miss Ashford." A low, magnetic voice came from behind me.

I turned sharply.

The man standing there wore a white coat. He was young, strikingly handsome, his sharp gaze fixed on me. But there was no ID badge on his chest.

My grip tightened around the handles of my wheelchair as a wave of embarrassment rose inside me. "I remember booking an appointment with Dr. Claire Linford," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "She's a female doctor."

"She's unavailable today," he replied calmly. "I'm covering all of her appointments."

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could say anything, he had already turned and walked to the door.

The consultation room door shut behind him.

It wasn't loud, but it sent an inexplicable tension through me.

I looked up instinctively.

Damian Sterling had already rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong, well-defined forearms. He pulled out a pair of medical gloves and slipped them on with practiced ease.

"Take off your clothes."

I froze. Lowering my gaze to the dress I was wearing, my fingers tightened unconsciously around the fabric over my knees.

Maybe it was because that video from last night hadn't left my mind. From the moment I stepped into the room, something in my body had felt… off.

A faint, restless sensation spread from deep in my lower abdomen.

I bit my lip, my voice trembling despite myself. "All of it?"

Damian lifted his gaze to me.

His eyes lingered on my face for a second before drifting downward, as if assessing something.

The way he looked at me so carefully made heat rush straight to my ears.

"It's standard procedure," he said evenly, without a trace of extra emotion.

I stayed silent for two seconds, then took a deep breath. Slowly, I lifted the hem of my dress and removed everything.

I didn't dare look at him. I closed my eyes instead, telling myself it would be over soon.

The next second, cold instruments and gloved fingers brushed against the most sensitive part of me. My legs snapped shut instinctively.

His fingers seemed to get caught for a brief moment, pausing there.

"Relax." His voice dropped lower, his warm breath brushing against my ear.

I tried to suppress the sound rising in my throat, but my body refused to cooperate.

A soft sound slipped out anyway, and my back arched involuntarily.

He lifted his head, one brow arching slightly. "Miss Ashford… why are you already this wet?"