Married To The Crippled Billionaire

CHAPTER ELEVEN: HIS WIFE NOT HIS

Layla Pov

The carved wood of the master bedroom's double doors, which loomed before me in the soft light of the chandelier, caught my attention once more. "You are now my wife," Dario said, and every word echoed in my mind like a chain securing itself around me. Instead of sleeping in the guest room, you will sleep in the master bedroom. His voice had been calm and unflinching, swallowing any criticism I may have dared to express, much like the mansion itself, which was all stone and grandeur. I stood still with my fingers grasping. This was not a bedroom but rather a cage that was covered up in luxury to make me forget I was in jail.

Despite the shiny racks at the Velluto, where the concierge's elegant grin had barely disguised her confusion, I went with the blouse, the flats, and the simple bag. With my flats scuffing the smooth floor, I took a step back. I said, "I don't belong here," in a voice that was solid enough but quieter than I would have liked. The only thing that reminded me of myself was the statement, "This room, this house—it's yours, not mine." The basic bag, the flats, and the blouse served as my fulcrum, demonstrating that I was still capable of making my own decisions.

Dario's eyes never left mine, and I could feel the weight of his presence drawing me into his circle without a word. He wheeled closer, his chair humming softly but purposefully as if every action he took was premeditated.

He said, "This is your home now, Layla," in a quieter but no less authoritative voice. "You'll discover that it's not all that different from your usual routine." I couldn't figure out the complexity of his words. What did he know about my routine? Did he have another meaning in mind, one that was connected to the scar and the past he kept hidden? My thoughts quickly turned to Matthew and the satin garment he had purchased for me, which I had cherished until his treachery destroyed it. I lost everything—my freedom, my trust, and my heart—when I allowed him to draw me into his world. I wouldn't repeat that error.

I didn't owe Dario my soul, even though he might have saved my father. I stood up straight and looked him in the eye. My hands were shaking, but my voice was sharper now. "I'm not your doll to dress up or your prisoner to lock in this room," I said.

His mouth quivered, almost like a smile, as if I had taken him by surprise. "A prisoner?" he asked again in a low, almost amused tone. "Do you believe that?" He stopped, looking into my eyes, and for a second I thought I caught a glimpse of something raw, human. However, it vanished as swiftly as it appeared, to be replaced by that inscrutable mask. "You have a choice, Layla. You picked out those outfits. Here, you will decide how to live. However, this room—" he pointed to the enormous bed and the silk curtains—"is yours. I hardly raised my voice above a whisper. "Dario, what do you want from me? Really?

He took a while to respond. Before he finally spoke, his voice was so low it made my spine tingle. The quiet was thick and heavy. "Layla, time will tell you." He whirled towards the door and halted just in front of it. "Go take a nap," he said, turning his wheelchair and walking out, leaving me to think by myself in the room. I sagged onto the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands, causing the silk to creak under my weight. I cleansed the few drops while leaning on my face.

In uncomfortable silence, our marriage continued into the night. I sat on the side of the bed, the silk sheets cold, refusing to lie down. I made every effort to remain fully conscious and awake, but exhaustion won out. Sleeping here was an invitation to Dario's plots.

As I considered everything that had transpired in a single day, the weight of Matthew's treachery, and my father's weak voice pleading, "Don't let them control you," the ink of the contract pulled me down. Since I hadn't seen my father all day, the shame and guilt washed over me like a tsunami. I was here, imprisoned in this luxurious cage, failing him while he was alone in that hospital, his life on the edge, his heart brittle. I was as painfully reminded of his heart attack as I was on the day it occurred. He was falling to the ground. He was my lone relative and the final remnant of my mother's ferocious love and fortitude.

I needed to sit beside his bed and hold his weak hand, to see him, to know he was breathing. Was he up, frightened, and wondering why I hadn't arrived? My heart was wrenched by the thought, and my shame was like a fire that pierced my weariness. I had to approach him and reassure him that I was still his daughter and that I hadn't left him. With my hands shaking but my resolve unwavering, I snatched up my basic bag and jammed in my wallet, phone, and a picture of my father. Before Dario could stop me, I would phone a cab and sneak out.

Voices rang out from the entry hall below as I walked down the wide staircase, my apartments quiet on the marble. I was too familiar with Dario's steel, which was low and cut.

The other, a man with a piercing, eerily familiar voice, made me shudder. Where did I hear it? Perhaps from the day my stepmother sealed my fate, but I couldn't pinpoint it, a recollection awoke. I disregarded the figures, their shadows dancing under the foyer’s chandelier, and accelerated my stride, my bag clasped tight. I was prepared to go.

However, Dario's wheelchair hummed quickly and purposefully behind me as I got closer to the huge front doors. His profile stood out sharply against the moonlight coming through the glass as he blocked my way.

His voice was a deep growl that made me freeze, and his dark, unwavering eyes met mine. Where, Layla, do you think you're going?

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