Married To The Crippled Billionaire

CHAPTER EIGHT: UNFORGOTTEN LOVER

Dario POV

My attention is on Layla, but the suite at the Velluto Hotel is a gilded trap, with its arched window framing the restless pulse of the city. Her dark hair spills in loose curls as she stands between racks of opulent clothing, glimmering in the light like a living flame. Her face shines with a raw beauty that surpasses the velvet draperies, with high cheekbones, a defiant jaw, and hazel eyes flecked with gold. Her pants and tattered coat, a silent protest, envelop her figure and allude to curves she doesn't show off. My eyes are drawn to her big, quivering lips, a diversion I fight, but her fire—unpolished, uncompromising—rules the room.

She silently rejects my money and my world by purposefully selecting the cheapest shoes, clothing, and bags by scanning price tags. She's wrong if she believes that I want to eliminate her, yet I find her stubbornness fascinating and frustrating. Every move she makes is a spark, and her replies are a battleground. Her hands shake—not from fear, but from a rage she clings to—as she places her tiny selection on the counter, disregarding the concierge's frown.

Her "This is all" is serene yet piercing, like a dagger slicing through the luxury of the apartment. Her hazel eyes flit to me, storming with inquiries, as I sit in my wheelchair with my hands on the armrests and my silence a shield.

I didn't want her to return home and see it empty due to her stepmother's activities because I didn't want her to go through that again. Her intelligence probes, perceiving the shadows I conceal. When the concierge says, "Mr Dario said there was no limit," while looking at me, I stay motionless and keep my eyes on Layla.

Her confidence is based on loyalty to her father and her past that I cannot touch, and her strong statement, "I choose what I need," is a gauntlet thrown. Even if it challenges my self-control, her intransigence is a stronghold that never gives up. I am in awe of her resilience.

It hurts, a silent wound, that she rejected my universe. I'm drawn to her because, unlike the women that surround my money, she doesn't dress up, and she chooses modesty over excess….

The women… attracted to the Dario name and the empire it promised, were always around, looming like shadows cast by my family's wealth. Each of them gave a performance designed to gain a position in my world; their voices were brimming with polished charm, and their smiles were calculated. They all desired the same thing: the penthouses, the boats, the glittering life that left me cold. These were socialites with impeccable elegance, heiresses with carefully manicured personas, and ladies who wielded beauty like a blade. I couldn't afford to be careless, so I didn't date around.

Every decision was calculated, and every relationship was risky. Because trust was a valuable resource that I strongly guarded, I was selective—not out of pride, but rather for survival. My father believed he could solve my loneliness with his traditional fixation on ancestry. He'd set up blind dates, bringing in women from "suitable" families, all of them immaculately dressed in couture that shouted affluent, educated, and shameless.

Unquestionably, they were gorgeous, but their eyes betrayed their true nature: they were ravenous, piercing, and focused on what I could offer rather than on me. I could still walk back then, my presence dominating, my stride confident. But even without the wheelchair, I was only a key to a kingdom and, hence, invisible to them. My patience would be wearing thin as I sat through those dinners, their stories of ski holidays and gala balls merging into background noise, their laughter irritating. I would nod disinterestedly, my mind elsewhere. I stopped making fun of my father after the fourth or sixth setup. His frustration grew, but I became more determined.

Being alone is preferable to living a falsehood. Then I got to know her. It lacked a planned match, a spectacular entrance, and an orchestration. In a small bookshop hidden away in the more sedate areas of the city, it was pure happenstance, unscripted. I had gone there to get away and smell the aroma of bygone eras when nobody gave a damn about my last name.

She waited in the poetry row, her hand sliding over a battered Neruda volume. Something inside of me stopped when I saw her before she saw me. Her beauty was compelling, like a flame that didn't need to roar to burn; it wasn't noisy. A ferocious yet frail face was framed by her dark hair falling in untamed curls. Sharp lines were cut by high cheekbones, which were softened by large, vibrant lips that trembled with ideas she didn't express.

In a single glance, her hazel eyes, which were flecked with gold, changed from warmth to defiance, holding secrets and storms. She walked with a gentle ease that made the world seem small, even though she was dressed in faded trousers and a jumper with worn hems. She was a lady who didn't conform to anyone's expectations; there was no mask or pretense, just her. I have no idea why I went up to her. Perhaps it was the way her lips moved softly, mouthing a line of poetry, or the way she gripped that book as if it were a stabilizing force.

With careful steps, I approached and enquired about the poet. In an instant, her piercing, doubtful eyes swung to meet mine. I smiled at the edge of her low, uncompromising voice. Neither the weight of my name nor my fitted jacket mattered to her.

We were trapped in a verbal dance, ideas igniting, the air between us electric, as she answered my inquiry with one of her own. That was the start. There were no elaborate dinners or showy gestures; we didn't date in the traditional sense. Bookshops, dimly lit cafés, and a park seat under a gnarled oak were among the peaceful settings where we met. She would discuss her father, her history, and the vows she kept as a barrier. I would listen and share bits of myself that I had suppressed, astonished at how readily they came out with her. She never enquired about my wealth and showed little concern for my background. Not the successor, not the empire, but me, Dario, was what she saw. We were trapped in a verbal dance, ideas igniting, the air between us electric, as she answered my inquiry with one of her own.

That was the start. There were no elaborate dinners or showy gestures; we didn't date in the traditional sense. Bookshops, dimly lit cafés, and a park seat under a gnarled oak were among the peaceful settings where we met. She would discuss her father, her history, and the vows she kept as a barrier. I would listen and share bits of myself that I had suppressed, astonished at how readily they came out with her. She never enquired about my wealth and showed little concern for my background. Not the successor, not the empire, but me, Dario, was what she saw.

Her paradoxes kept me there, yet her fire drew me in. She was a lady who could stand in a sea of excess and choose simplicity because it was hers; she was strong yet tender, closed off yet open. Every second I spent with her was a challenge, a spark, and a reminder that I was capable of feeling real emotions. Her laughing became a sound I craved as we began to meet more frequently and have late-night discussions. I didn't know where it was going, but I didn't have to for the first time. Her passion, her determination, her defiance—she was enough.

With every choice she makes, I see her rejecting my world in this velluto suit, and I understand that I'm falling further than I ever thought I would. How could I convince her that we had already met and that we were on the verge of falling in love? I must have her by my side always until she regains her memory.