The Disabled Billionaire's Substitute Bride

Singapore’s rain came down in sheets, thick and warm, the kind that clings to your skin like a second layer and turns Orchard Road’s sidewalks into glistening rivers. Joey Chu huddled under a flimsy awning outside a closed convenience store, her arms wrapped tight around a crumpled paper bag. Inside, a single Peranakan porcelain shard—cracked blue-and-white, the pattern of a Nyonya flower her father had painted—dug into her ribs. It was all she’d managed to grab when her uncle’s maid had shoved her out of the Chu family’s apartment an hour earlier, rain already soaking her thin blouse. “Oi! You can’t loiter here!” A security guard in a neon vest marched over, his boots splashing through puddles. His Singlish was sharp, no patience for stray kids in the rain. “This is private property—scram before I call the police!” Joey flinched. She’d heard that tone before—from creditors pounding on Chu’s Heritage’s door, from Luna mocking her “pathetic little shop,” from her uncle’s cold voice when he’d said, “You owe us, September.” She nodded, clutching the bag tighter, and stepped back into the downpour. The rain stung her eyes as she walked, past closed boutiques and the faint aroma of satay from a street stall that had shut early. Singapore was supposed to be her home, but right now, it felt like a stranger’s city—big, cold, and unforgiving. She didn’t stop until she reached Chu’s Heritage. The shop’s sign was faded, the once-bright blue letters now dulled by rain and neglect. The windows were half-covered with newspaper, but she could see the empty display cases inside, the dust on her father’s old workbench. She fumbled with the key, her hands shaking so hard it took three tries to unlock the door. The bell above jingled weakly, as if too tired to care. Inside, the air smelled of old silk and unused clay—her father’s scents, the ones that used to make her feel safe. Mrs. Lim, the only clerk who’d stayed when the shop started to fail, looked up from folding Peranakan scarves, her face softening when she saw Joey. “Joey jie, you’re soaked! Come, I’ll get you a towel.” She hurried to the back, returning with a frayed blue towel—another relic from her father’s time. “Did… did your uncle say anything?” Joey shook her head, sitting on the edge of the workbench. She pulled the porcelain shard from the bag, running her finger along its crack. “He kicked me out. Said if I don’t agree, he’ll… he’ll tell everyone my dad’s ‘accident’ wasn’t an accident.” Her voice broke. Her father had died in a car crash two years ago, or so everyone said. But her uncle had been acting strange ever since—taking over the shop, draining the accounts, whispering about “mistakes” her father had made. Mrs. Lim’s face hardened. “That man is a snake. Your dad trusted him, and this is how he repays it?” She handed Joey a mug of hot teh tarik, steam curling into the air. “The suppliers called again. They want their money by Friday, or they’re suing. And the Customs letter—” She nodded at a crumpled envelope on the counter. “It says we’re blacklisted. No more imports, no more exports. Chu’s Heritage is dying, Joey jie.” Joey picked up the letter, her hands trembling. The words blurred: Chu’s Heritage, Singapore Overseas Account, unpaid debts, blacklisted until further notice. This was her father’s life’s work, the shop he’d built from a tiny stall in Chinatown to a beloved spot for Peranakan crafts. And now it was falling apart, and she couldn’t stop it. The bell jingled again. Joey’s heart jumped—another creditor? But it was her uncle, Chu Zhengyang, and her Aunt，Du Meihuan, their shoes clicking on the wooden floor. Her uncle wore a tailored suit, dry and crisp, as if the rain outside hadn’t touched him. Her Aunt’s hair was perfectly styled, her perfume clashing with the shop’s earthy scents. “September,” her uncle said, using her Chinese name like a weapon. He’d always hated that she preferred “Joey”—said it was “too Western, not Chu family.” “We need to talk.” Joey stood, gripping the porcelain shard until her knuckles turned white. “About the suppliers? I’m trying to negotiate—” “Not the suppliers,” Du Meihuan cut in, her smile sharp. She leaned against the display case, knocking over a stack of scarves. “About salvation. For the shop. For you.” Her uncle stepped forward, steepling his fingers. “You know Xu Global, yes? The Xu family—they own half of Singapore’s tech, half its logistics. Their youngest heir, Ethan Xu, needs a wife.” Joey blinked. Ethan Xu. The name was everywhere—on billboards for Xu Global’s new Marina Bay tower, in gossip columns about the “recluse heir” who’d been paralyzed in a yacht accident. A man said to be cold, cruel, and so powerful that even Singapore’s old-money families feared him. “What does he have to do with us?” “Everything,” her uncle said. “The Xus will clear our debts—all of them, the overseas ones too. They’ll get Customs to lift the blacklist. But there’s a catch. They want a Chu daughter. And Luna—” He paused, as if Luna’s absence was a great inconvenience. “Luna’s in London, chasing some Rich second generation. So that leaves you.” Joey laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You want me to marry a stranger? A man who can’t even walk? Just to save a shop you destroyed?” Her uncle’s smile faded. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “Don’t be ungrateful. We raised you for ten years, after your parents died. Is this how you repay us? Letting Chu’s Heritage die? Letting me go to jail for embezzlement?” He lied—she knew he’d stolen the money—but his tone was sharp enough to cut. “And don’t forget—your dad’s ‘accident’? I have papers. Papers that say it wasn’t an accident. Papers that could ruin his reputation, even in death.” Joey’s blood ran cold. Blackmail. Always blackmail. She thought of her father, teaching her to paint Peranakan patterns when she was seven, telling her, “Heritage isn’t about clay. It’s about honor.” If marrying Ethan Xu was the only way to protect that honor—to save the shop, to keep her father’s name clean—what choice did she have? She looked at the porcelain shard in her hand, at the faded photos of her father on the wall, at Mrs. Lim’s worried face. “Fine,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll do it.” Her uncle’s face lit up. “Smart girl. The Xus will send a car tomorrow at 9 a.m. They want you at Ethan’s villa on Bukit Timah by noon. Du Meihuan will help you pick out something nice—nothing cheap, the Xus notice details.” They left quickly, as if afraid she’d change her mind. Joey collapsed onto the workbench, the porcelain shard slipping from her hand. It clattered to the floor, but didn’t break further—tough, like her father had made it. Mrs. Lim knelt beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to do this, Joey jie. We can find another way.” Joey shook her head, picking up the shard. “There is no other way. This shop is all I have left of him. I can’t let it die.” She stood, wiping her eyes. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to the villa. I’ll marry Ethan Xu. And one day, I’ll get Chu’s Heritage back. For Dad.” That night, she slept in the shop, curled up on the workbench with her father’s old blanket. The rain tapped on the windows, and she held the porcelain shard close, as if it could give her strength. She thought of Ethan Xu—his wheelchair, his cold reputation, the life he’d force her to live. But she also thought of her father’s smile, of the shop’s bell jingling when a customer walked in, of the day she’d first painted a Nyonya flower on a bowl. She would survive. For her father. For Chu’s Heritage. The next morning, Du Meihuan arrived with a white lace dress that felt too tight, too formal, nothing like the casual clothes she wore at the shop. “Smile,” her Aunt said, yanking her hair into a tight bun. “You’re marrying into Singapore’s top family. Be grateful.” Joey didn’t smile. She sat in the back of the Xu family’s black Bentley, watching Singapore pass by—Marina Bay’s skyscrapers glinting in the sun, Bukit Timah’s green hills rising in the distance. The car pulled up to a gate guarded by men in black, and Joey’s heart raced as they entered a sprawling estate—lush gardens, a private pool, a mansion that looked like it belonged in a movie. A butler in a tailored suit greeted her at the door. “Miss Chu,” he said, his posture stiff. “I’m Winston, Mr. Xu’s butler. Please follow me.” Joey walked through a foyer with marble floors and a chandelier that sparkled like stars. The air smelled of sandalwood and something sharp—maybe Ethan’s cologne. Winston led her to a set of double doors, then paused. “Mr. Xu is inside. He… prefers quiet. Please be mindful.” Mindful of what? His disability? His temper? Joey took a deep breath, the porcelain shard she’d hidden in her pocket digging into her hip. She pushed the door open. The room was a study, dark wood shelves lined with books, a desk overlooking the garden. And in the center, by the window, sat a man in a custom black wheelchair. He was younger than she’d expected—maybe 28—with sharp cheekbones, skin pale from too little sun, and eyes that were black as Singapore’s night sky. When he looked up, Joey felt a jolt—there was something intense about him, something that made her forget to breathe. “Miss Chu,” he said, his voice low and cool, no warmth at all. “Sit.” Joey sat, the porcelain shard pressing harder against her hip. She tried not to stare at his legs, covered by a navy blanket, but her gaze kept drifting there—curious, guilty. Ethan noticed. He leaned back, his fingers tapping the arm of the wheelchair—a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You’re here because your uncle owes my family a favor. Because my father thinks a marriage will strengthen Xu Global’s ties to the Chinese community in Singapore.” He paused, his eyes scanning her face. “But let’s be clear: this is a contract. We’ll act as husband and wife in public. In private, you’ll have your own wing of the villa. No interference. No expectations.” Expectations. Joey understood. He didn’t want a real wife—just a placeholder. Someone to keep his family happy, to stop the rumors. She should be relieved. But for some reason, his coldness stung. “I understand,” she said, her voice steady. “And Chu’s Heritage? The debts, the Customs blacklist?” “Cleared by tomorrow,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “Winston will give you a card for expenses. Now, Winston will show you to your room. Dinner is at 7. Don’t be late.” He turned back to the window, dismissing her as easily as he’d greeted her. Joey stood, the porcelain shard still in her pocket. She’d gotten what she wanted—Chu’s Heritage would survive. But as she followed Winston out of the study, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d walked into something far more complicated than a simple contract. Something that might break her. Or maybe—just maybe—save her.