Chapter 3 Chapter Three

• The scent of flowers filled the air as Cynthia walked through the gates of the Sydney estate. Maids rushed past with her bags. Inside, the mood felt cold. Her new in-laws watched her from the fancy living room, making her feel like an outsider.
• “He’s upstairs,” Mrs. Sydney said flatly. “You can meet him.”
• Cynthia nodded, gripping the railing as she climbed the grand staircase. Their judgment felt heavy on her back. At his door, she hesitated before knocking, but when there was no answer, she pushed it open.
• The air Inside felt stale, smelling of medicine and something bitter. Sunlight shone through thick curtains, casting a soft light on the man by the window. His hands rested on the arms of his wheelchair, and he stared ahead, lost in thought.
• She took a step forward. His head snapped toward her, eyes sharp with resentment. “Who are you?”
• She met his glare calmly. I see you don’t remember me “I’m Cynthia. Your wife.”
• He made a dry, humorless chuckle. “I never asked for a wife. Go back.”
• “I can’t. The contract is signed.”
• Her mouth stiffened “I never needed a husband either,” she admitted.
• “Then leave.”
• She lifted her chin. “I’d rather stay here than go back.”
• His fingers folded around the armrests. “This will be hell for you. I’ll make sure of it.”
• “Nothing compared to what I have faced.”
• His expression darkened. In a sudden burst of anger, he grabbed a vase and threw it at the floor. The glass shattered, and a sharp piece sliced his legs. He sucked in a sharp breath, pain flashing across his face. But Cynthia saw the blood before he did. Without hesitation, she tore a strip from her dress and knelt to wrap the wound.
• “Don’t touch me,” he said, his voice raw as he shoved her back. She stumbled, landing on the broken glass. A sharp pain burned in her palms as blood covered her hands. Silence filled the space between them. His anger faded, replaced by something unclear—maybe guilt.
• She moved toward him again. He tried to push her away, but she caught his wrist, holding firm but he didn’t move away. She looked at his hurt leg, then looked back at him.
• “I never wanted this,” she whispered. “ and I know You never wanted it either.”
• “so let’s make a deal,” she said quietly. “Do you know you can walk again? I believe you can walk again, and I’ll help you do it. Once that happens, we get divorced and you let me chase my dreams.”
• A bitter laugh escaped him. “You think you can fix me?”
• “I know I can.”
• The room was silent as he stared at her, searching for any sign of fear. But she didn’t appear scared—only determined.
• “Fine,” he muttered. Deal. “Do what you want, but It won’t be easy for you.”
• She ignored his words and reached for his leg. He stiffened. “What are you doing?”
• “Checking your wound.”
• “I don’t need your help.”
• “You’ve already made a deal,” she said, lightly touching the cut on his skin. He winced but didn’t pull away. “If I’m going to make you walk, we need to start now.”
• He felt his pride being punctured, but he didn’t argue. She pressed the fabric against his skin, holding it firmly despite her own hands aching. ”We need to clean this properly,” she said, standing up.
• His eyes were fixed on her bleeding hands. “Clean yourself first.” She looked at her palms, then back at him. “I will. But you come first.
• It's right on the shelf, he told her, pointing to where it was in his room.
• Something changed in his face, but she couldn’t tell what it was. He didn’t yell at her; he just watched as she walked to get the first aid kit. For the first time, she felt like she had some control.
• Cynthia moved toward the corner cabinet, looking for a first-aid kit. As she reached up, her elbow brushed against a small glass ball sitting on the shelf.
• It wobbled. Cynthia turned just in time to see it slip— the delicate ball crashed into a dozen pieces on the floor.
• Ken froze completely while Cynthia’s stomach sank within her. She slowly turned to him. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
• “Get out.” His voice was low, Cold and Scary.
• Cynthia opened her mouth, but no words came out. Ken clenched the armrests of his chair, his whole body tense with anger.
• “I told you I don’t need your help or your pity,” he said, his voice shaking—not from being weak, but from holding back his rage. He looked at the broken pieces on the floor. It was his only memory of his mother But now it was gone.
• “Your help has cost me enough.” His eyes, darker than ever, met hers. “Leave my room and don’t come back.”
• She paused for a moment.
• “Go,” he snapped. “Find your own room.”
• Cynthia felt a lump in her throat, her fingers tightening at her sides. She wanted to say something, but she knew nothing would make it better. So, she turned and walked out.
• Behind her, Ken sat in silence, staring at the shattered parts of his past and for the first time since she had come, he suddenly developed a strong hatred for her.