Brother-In-Law's Replaced Bride

Ass

Irene Jones POV

I ignored his words and kept going. “Where is your room? We don’t have the whole night. I’m tired.” The whole wedding had drained me; everything that followed squeezed the life out of me until all I wanted was a place to breathe.

“Move forward. The last and biggest room is mine. I rarely come to this mansion, but for tonight we can use it.”

I pushed the wheelchair faster. The sooner we reached the room, the sooner I could pretend this day never happened. But the thought sank in anyway, slow and heavy—sharing a room with this arrogant husband of mine.

A man who barely visited this place, yet dragged me here as if I were a spare, a replacement, something his family could look down on without restraint.

Replacement, spare, entertainment—my own family treated me as the first two, his family as the last. But I didn’t accept any of it.

“Stop. Where is your attention?” A cold touch brushed my hand, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I halted instantly. Theodore’s gloved fingers rested on mine as he looked back at me.

I still didn’t understand why he touched me. Someone who covered every inch of his skin should hate physical contact, yet he reached for me again and again, as if it cost him nothing. And that—more than anything—felt strange.

“I’m right here.” I guided the wheelchair inside with him.

The room opened in front of me, washed in white. Calm. Nothing like the aura Theodore carried. Enormous, yes, but quiet and peaceful in a way I hadn’t expected.

“You can’t keep being shocked by everything, Irene. It makes you look like you’ve never seen anything in your life.”

Maybe I hadn’t. Growing up in the Jones family meant getting scraps, not luxury, and I’d left at eighteen with nothing but a bag.

The Myers were on a different level entirely. “How am I supposed to hide it? I’ve never seen anything like your mansion. And this room… it’s peaceful. Unlike your arrogant ass.”

“Ass?” He sounded genuinely thrown, like I’d cursed him in some forbidden language.

“Yes, an ass. Everyone has one. Don’t act like it’s an alien term.” I walked over to the bed and sat. “Take the floor. I’ll take the bed. This marriage means nothing to either of us, so I don’t see why we need to share.”

His gloved fingers tightened on the wheelchair’s armrest. “This is my room. You know that.”

“But you dragged me here. And I already took enough insults from your family. I’m not taking the floor too.” I narrowed my eyes.

“I’m paralyzed from the waist down. How are you expecting me to sleep on the floor?”

Fair. Extremely fair.

“Then use another room. It’s not like you’d want to sleep beside an ugly person like me.” The bitterness from his cousin’s comments—and the rest of his family’s—still clung to me, sharp and humiliating. I wasn’t letting him off easy for any of it.

He shook his head like I was throwing tantrums. Maybe I was. “If you’re still hurt by my family’s words, then take it out on them, not me.”

“See, I don’t want to take anything out on anyone.” A lie, because part of me absolutely wanted to teach his family a lesson, even if I didn’t know how. “You brought me here, so I’m setting my boundaries. And I don’t think you’ll be comfortable sleeping in that mask and those gloves.”

He clearly didn’t want to show me his face, or anything else, so sharing a bed made no sense. It would be uncomfortable for him too.

He let out a short chuckle. “You sleep on the floor. I’m not taking it. That’s your problem. I can sleep in a mask or anything.”

“How are you gonna get on the bed if I don’t help you?” God. I sounded heartless with every word.

Disrespectful too.

I wasn’t usually like this, but what was I supposed to do? A forced husband. A man I once imagined might be decent, only to find out he was unpredictable and impossible.

“Get this right, Irene. You came into my life today. I don’t need your help. I’m capable enough to help myself,” he growled.

“Then why did you make me push this wheelchair for you?”

“Because you need to understand your position in my life. Behind me. Lower than me. And you better shut your mouth, or I might put this spicy mouth somewhere it won’t enjoy.”

My stomach tightened, heat crawling up my spine. Not fear—anger, humiliation, and frustration twisting together until my nails dug into my palms. “So that’s what this is? Are you pulling me around just to prove a point?”

“It’s not a point. It’s reality.”

“Your reality,” I muttered under my breath, pulse kicking against my throat. “Not mine.”

He shifted slightly in the wheelchair, the movement controlled and deliberate, as if reminding me he didn’t need softness from anyone—least of all me. The gloved fingers flexed once, slow, almost mocking.

“You think you’ll survive here by talking back to me?” he asked.

“I think I’ll survive because I’ve survived worse.” The words tightened in my throat, and I couldn’t tell if I was reassuring myself or walking straight into something I shouldn’t.

“You get it straight, Irene. The worst you’ve suffered in your life is playtime compared to what you’ll face if you keep behaving like this.” His warning carried a tone that sent a cold shiver through me, the kind that dug into my bones. And the way he dismissed my pain—so casually—hit something raw.

I’d suffered enough in my life, and someone this privileged called it casual. Perfect. Just perfect.

I blinked a few times, trying to steady myself, trying to shove the sting back where it wouldn’t show. “I don’t want comparisons. I’m fine with my playtime sufferings. Now go sleep somewhere so I can sleep too. I’m too tired for all these shenanigans.”