The past few days, I had been tagging along with a matchmaking group. My intention? To enjoy the free food and drinks at the events while blending into the lively atmosphere. Honestly, I wasn’t there to find love but rather to amuse myself by observing the dating habits of modern bachelors and bachelorettes.

The group wasn’t just young singles. Among the members were a handful of elderly women eagerly seeking matches for their children. One day, one of these aunties dropped a bombshell that sent the group into a frenzy.

She casually announced, “I own 53 rental properties, three villas, and five adorable cats. All of this, plus additional assets, will be inherited by my only son. On top of that, I’m prepared to give my future daughter-in-law a monthly allowance of $50,000.”

The chat erupted with messages from women of all backgrounds vying for her attention. Questions flooded in, asking if her claims were true.

With confidence, she affirmed the legitimacy of her statement. But then she added, “There’s just one condition—my son is in a vegetative state. I hope his future wife will not mind.”

Silence fell over the group like a heavy curtain, but I couldn’t help chuckling. To me, this sounded like a golden opportunity wrapped in a velvet bow.

I had already decided long ago that marriage wasn’t in my plans. Why bother tying myself down? Life was better lived on my own terms. But if marrying a man in a vegetative state meant financial freedom? That didn’t sound too bad at all.

I, Stella Greer, had one great love: money.

Without hesitation, I sent her a message in the group chat: “Why would I mind? Your son is clearly my destined Sleeping Prince!”

The group exploded in laughter and applause. Messages poured in, calling me bold, funny, and even shameless. I didn’t care. To me, it was all worth it.

Moments later, the auntie messaged me privately:

“Are you being serious? Do you actually want to marry my son? Or are you just joking?”

“Of course, I’m serious!”

“Why?”

“Because of money,” I replied bluntly. There was no point in sugarcoating it—I was in it for the fortune.

She fell silent, and I assumed I’d blown my chance. But then, to my surprise, I received a transfer notification. She had sent me $500 as a travel allowance and invited me to visit her at Villa Eight in Starlight Bay, located in Crescent Gardens. She promised a warm welcome.

Crescent Gardens was the most exclusive neighborhood in the city, with villas averaging over $1 million. This woman wasn’t just rich—she was obscenely wealthy.

Grinning, I shamelessly accepted the money and set off immediately.

When I arrived at Villa Eight, I was greeted by an atmosphere of luxury and grandeur. The villa’s exterior was stunning, with meticulously maintained gardens and an air of nobility that made me feel slightly out of place.

After straightening my hair and smoothing my clothes, I rang the doorbell.

A glamorous woman in her forties opened the door, her smile radiant. She exuded sophistication, looking no older than her early thirties. Her flawless skin and impeccable fashion sense made me feel like I was meeting a celebrity.

“Hello, my name is Stella Greer,” I introduced myself, extending a hand. “I’m a graduate of a prestigious Ivy League university, currently preparing for the civil service examination.”

The woman, Abigail Winslow, shook my hand warmly, her eyes gleaming with approval. “You’re young, beautiful, and accomplished. Wonderful.”

After exchanging pleasantries, she invited me inside, pouring tea as we sat in the opulent living room. She asked about my background—family, work, and aspirations.

“My parents divorced when I was young, and neither of them kept in touch. I’ve been on my own ever since,” I explained. “As for work, I’m a fashion designer with an annual salary of around $100,000.”

Abigail nodded thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. She didn’t press further and soon gestured for me to follow her upstairs.

“Are we going to meet my Sleeping Prince now?” I teased.

She smiled. “Yes, my son is also my precious Sleeping Prince.”

We climbed to the third floor and entered a bedroom. I wasn’t expecting much—I’d already prepared myself for a purely transactional relationship. I didn’t need to fall in love. I only needed to secure the deal and fulfill my duties.

But the moment I saw him, my breath hitched.

There he was, lying peacefully on the bed. His long lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, and his features were so exquisite they seemed sculpted by an artist. His collarbones peeked out from under his shirt, sharp and defined, giving him an otherworldly elegance.

My heart raced. My mind screamed, This… this is my prince.

For the first time in my life, I felt a spark—something more than ambition or greed. Was it excitement? Was it attraction?

Whatever it was, I knew one thing: this wasn’t going to be as simple as I had thought.

I never imagined my Sleeping Prince to be this strikingly handsome. His looks could rival a celebrity’s!

For years, I had been indifferent toward men, but now? I was a changed woman.

It seemed the rumors were true—women really were superficial creatures.

Abigail Winslow, the elegant woman by his bedside, gently held her son’s hand and patted it as she looked at me. Her voice was soft yet tinged with sorrow. “Stella, this is my son, Adrian Winslow. His father passed away when he was young. I prayed he would grow up strong and healthy, but fate had other plans. A car accident robbed him of everything…”

Her voice broke, and her eyes grew glassy as she stared at Adrian’s still form.

A pang of sympathy hit me. Though I was here for my own selfish reasons, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this family’s tragedy.

“Maybe a miracle will happen, and Adrian will wake up,” I said, trying to offer some comfort.

She shook her head, her lips trembling. “He’s been in treatment for so long. The doctors have confirmed he’s permanently vegetative…” Her voice cracked as fresh tears threatened to fall.

Not knowing how to console her further, I fell silent.

After some time, Abigail composed herself and led me downstairs. “Stella, if you’re willing, you can move in now. Spend six months here, and if you don’t change your mind, we’ll discuss the marriage.”

I blinked. “Move in now?”

“Yes. My business in Crescent City has been delayed for far too long, and I need to leave soon. The butler and housemaids will help you settle in. Treat this house as your own,” she said with a reassuring smile.

I glanced at the lavish mansion surrounding us. Moving in here sounded like a dream come true. This place practically screamed luxury.

“All right,” I agreed, nodding. Her trust in me was unexpected, but I wasn’t going to squander it.

Abigail smiled warmly. “Good. Since you’re here for the money, I’ll need to conduct a thorough background check. You’re okay with that, right?”

What a blunt woman!

“Of course,” I replied, unfazed.

She shook my hand firmly. “You’re honest, Stella, and I like that about you. Over the past two years, I’ve met many potential daughters-in-law, but none of them seemed right. You’re the first who feels… genuine.”

Her words surprised me. Genuine? Me? Still, I smiled and nodded politely.

“I’ll leave everything to you. Just keep Adrian company, talk to him, and let the staff handle the rest. I’ll transfer your allowance to you monthly,” she added.

I couldn’t stop myself from nodding enthusiastically.

That same day, Abigail left for Crescent City, and I officially moved into the villa with my few bags.

The butler and maids were indeed present, but they had little to do in such a well-maintained home. Most of the time, they lingered around idly, leaving me to my own devices.

I chose the room next to Adrian’s. It was bright and sunny, with large windows that overlooked the garden—a perfect spot for relaxing or studying.

After unpacking, I decided to visit Adrian.

When I entered his room, he looked as peaceful as before, his handsome features somehow even more captivating in the soft light.

“Such a waste,” I muttered under my breath. “A prince like you doesn’t belong in this state…”

Taking a seat by his bed, I introduced myself with a grin. “Hi, Mr. Winslow. I’m Stella Greer, your future wife. From today on, I’ll be taking care of you.”

As expected, he didn’t respond.

Later, I returned to my room and pulled out my laptop. Curiosity got the better of me, and I began researching vegetative states.

I learned that there were three types: one where patients had minimal consciousness, another where they could open their eyes subconsciously but remained unaware, and the last—a permanent vegetative state—where no consciousness remained at all.

Unfortunately, Adrian belonged to the third category.

I also checked if recovery was possible. While cases of miraculous recovery existed, they were one-in-a-million at best. Methods like stimulation and massage could help, but the odds were practically zero.

Sighing, I shut my laptop. A one-in-a-million chance might as well be no chance at all.

A faint cough startled me, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Adrian?” I whispered, rushing to his room.

To my disappointment, he was still lying there, motionless and serene.

Scratching my head, I decided it must have been my imagination. There was no way he had coughed.

“Well,” I muttered to myself, “I might as well do my part. Earn the allowance, be a dutiful daughter-in-law, and live comfortably.”

Speaking of which, Abigail had just transferred $100,000 into my account. Seeing the notification lit up my face.

With this kind of money, living in the villa would be a dream come true. I could eat, drink, and enjoy life without a care in the world.

For the first time in a while, I felt truly at ease. Maybe this arrangement wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

After receiving $100,000, I was in an excellent mood. With the early evening still ahead of me, I decided to take care of some “business.”

The business in question? Chatting with Adrian, giving him a massage, and helping turn him over—all the small duties of a devoted fiancée. After all, I was his future wife and had already received money for the role. It was only fair that I put in some effort. Perhaps, if I were being completely honest, I was also drawn to him because of his extraordinary good looks.

Entering Adrian’s room, I found it just as serene and orderly as before. The atmosphere was calm, almost reverent. Everything in the room seemed intentionally designed for comfort—his bed carefully positioned near the window, the soft lighting casting a gentle glow, and not a speck of dust to be seen.

The maids rarely came up here. Abigail had specifically instructed them to avoid disturbing Adrian, even though he was in a vegetative state. The care he received was meticulous.

I sat beside him and, once again, marveled at his perfection. How could one person be so handsome? His features were refined, like a sculpture crafted by a master artist.

“Mr. Winslow, you truly possess unearthly beauty,” I remarked, smiling to myself as I began to talk.

Our conversation—or rather, my monologue—was entirely one-sided. With Adrian unable to respond, I felt no pressure to filter my thoughts. I rambled on, jumping from Schopenhauer to Nietzsche and then delving into my own life story, narrating everything from my awkward childhood to the circumstances that had brought me here.

Eventually, I asked him, “Do you mind if I take a look at your abdominal muscles?”

He gave no response, naturally, which I took as consent.

“Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m not actually interested in men.”

Still, I proceeded with the routine I’d learned online: massaging his limbs, turning him over, and attempting vagus nerve stimulation. Though I lacked professional skills, I tried my best, fumbling through the steps with clumsy determination.

The entire process took me over half an hour. By the time I was done, I was sweating. Adrian was tall and solidly built, making the task surprisingly labor-intensive.

“How was that? Your wife isn’t too bad, right? Don’t worry, Adrian—I’m taking your family’s money, so I’ll take good care of you,” I joked, brushing my damp hair back from my face.

As I leaned over to straighten his blanket, I noticed something—his eyelids seemed to twitch, almost as though he had been subtly stimulated by the massage.

Startled, I froze and stared at him, holding my breath. Was he waking up?

But no. His expression remained perfectly still, his breathing steady and deep.

I hesitated, then reached out to touch his eyelids gently, hoping for another reaction. There was none.

“It must have been my imagination,” I muttered, disappointed.

Shrugging it off, I left his room and headed downstairs for dinner. Amanda, the head housemaid, had prepared a simple yet delicious meal of soup and rice. She served it with a professional demeanor, her expression neutral.

“Thank you, Amanda,” I said politely as I dug in. “How long has Mr. Winslow been in this state?”

“Almost two years now,” Amanda replied matter-of-factly, not meeting my gaze.

Her cool attitude didn’t bother me; I suspected she had dealt with many prospective daughters-in-law over the years and saw me as just another one in the line.

“How many daughters-in-law have there been before me?” I asked, curious.

“Six,” she replied flatly.

I nodded, unsurprised.

I took a sip of soup and asked, “Don’t you think it’s cruel for him to stay in bed all day? What if he’s aware of his surroundings? Wouldn’t it be better to take him outside for some fresh air?”

Amanda paused, clearly caught off guard. “Take him outside?”

“Yes. Later, let’s turn on all the lights in the villa and bring him out to the courtyard for a stroll. It might do him some good.”

After dinner, I followed through with my plan. The courtyard was illuminated brightly, the night sky above dotted with stars. It was a breathtaking sight, complete with a swimming pool, a grassy slope, a bamboo grove, and an elegant rockery with flowing water.

I instructed Amanda to fetch a wheelchair. Together, we carefully lifted Adrian onto it, taking care not to jostle him too much.