Married To My Fake Disabled Husband

Alice stared at the number on the tablet: $374,581.19.

Those numbers seemed to burn the screen, a cold weight sinking into her stomach, as if she had swallowed a block of ice. The sterile corridors of Manhattan Presbyterian Hospital were filled with the smell of disinfectant, and every breath she took was shallow and tense. The fingers gripping the tablet were numb.

A nurse named Evans walked over, her shoes making a faint creak on the shiny plastic floor. Her gaze remained fixed on the medical records in her hand, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Alice.

"Mrs. Night." She spoke, her voice low and hesitant. "There was a problem with the trust fund payments."

Alice didn't look up from the bill. She had known for a long time. "It's frozen."

Not a question.

Nurse Evans finally met her gaze, a trace of pity flashing in her eyes. "Yes. The hospital's finance department received a notice an hour ago. ”

The chill in Alice's stomach coiled into a cold knot. The Knight family. They are applying pressure.

At the end of the corridor, a sharp, rhythmic click sounded. Her high heels stepped on the marble floor, her voice full of aggression, as if declaring her territory. Alice didn't even need to look up to know who it was.

Belinda Knight stopped a few feet away, followed by two men in dark suits—their shoulders too broad for a dress to be. The expensive and sweet scent of her perfume almost suffocated the hospital's fresh air.

"Oh, yo." Belinda's voice carried a condescending, mocking tone. Her gaze slowly swept over Alice's body, resting on the simple, practical trench coat—a look meant to measure and yet look at disdain. "Still here?"

Alice finally lifted her head. Her expression is a plain and elusive mask. "Move aside."

Belinda laughed, a short and piercing laugh. "You know, for a moment I almost thought you still had some dignity. But look at you—clinging to this family like a leech, exhausting our resources just to maintain that ...... The life of things. She vaguely pointed toward the tightly closed door of the hospital room.

The ice in Alice's stomach shattered, replaced by a sudden wave of heat. But her expression remained calm. "I told you, move aside."

"What else can we do?" Belinda stepped closer, sneering. The air was filled with her self-satisfied sense of superiority. "Are you going to cry? Kneeling down to beg me? You peasants know how to do this. ”

She reached out, her perfectly trimmed fingers trying to push Alice's shoulder.

This move was a mistake.

Before Belinda's hand could touch her, Alice's body reacted instinctively—a smooth, effortless movement. Her hips rotated slightly, shifting her center of gravity skillfully. Belinda's hand hit empty air.

At the same moment, Alice's hand suddenly stretched out, her fingers wrapping around Belinda's wrist. Her grip was like steel—it wouldn't crush, but it was absolutely firm and unmoving.

A sharp cry of pain escaped Belinda's lips. "Let go of me!"

The two bodyguards tensed up, their hands reaching into their jackets.

Alice's eyes were as cold and deep as winter lakes as she met Belinda's gaze. "Touch me again—" Her voice was so weak it was almost whispering, but it pierced through the quiet hum of the hallway, "I'll break your arm." ”

There was no anger in the voice, just a simple statement of fact. This is exactly what terrified Belinda. She saw something in Alice's eyes she had never seen before—a calm yet deadly calm. This is not a threat, it is a promise.

Belinda suddenly pulled her hand back, clutching her wrist as if burned. She staggered back, her face pale from a mix of shock and anger. "You're just trash." She spat out, her voice trembling slightly. "You'll always be trash."

She turned around and stormed off. Two bodyguards followed closely behind, glancing back warily at Alice.

Alice watched them leave, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She took a slow and deliberate breath, forcing the adrenaline to fade. Then he took another drag. The burning heat faded, leaving only a cold resolve. She turned and walked toward the elevator shaft, her steps steady and calm. She had to go to the cashier. She will find a way.

She pressed the down button. The metal door slid open with a gentle prompt, revealing an empty passenger car. She walked in, and the door began closing behind her.

Just as the gap narrowed to just a few inches, a hand suddenly slapped the rubber edge—a large hand wearing black leather gloves.

The door slammed open and slid open again.

A man walked in. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and moves with a silent, predator-like elegance. A half-mask made of dark molded carbon fiber covers the upper part of his face, revealing only a cold, unsmiling mouth. A wave of cold air seemed to follow him into the elevator, carrying a faint winter scent and a certain metallic chill.

Every nerve in Alice's body screamed for danger. She didn't move, didn't breathe, only observing him out of the corner of her eye, while quietly shifting her center of gravity to create half a step of distance in the cramped space.

The elevator doors closed, sealing the two inside. The car began to descend.

The ceiling lights flickered once, then again, emitting a buzzing sound like a dying insect.

Then, with a faint "pop," the lights went out.

They were pushed into almost complete darkness.

In that moment of darkness, he moved. So fast it was unbelievable—one moment he was by the door, the next he was close, the closing force squeezing out the air from her lungs.

His muscular, twisted arm suddenly pressed down on her throat, pinning her against the cold metal wall of the elevator. The immense pressure cut off her breath. Black spots began to appear in his vision, and his lungs burned.

But there is no fear. Only cold and clear focus.

A deep, hoarse voice, tinged with rough whispers, sounded in her ears. "So, you are that person."

He knew her.

Her hands, which had been hanging by her sides, began to move with purpose. Her fingers rummaged through the pockets of her trench coat, touching cold, familiar steel—a disposable scalpel. She is always well prepared.

She lets her body go limp—a classic trick, pretending to lose consciousness.

She felt the pressure on her throat ease. It happened in an instant. That was exactly the moment she needed.

Her hand suddenly pulled out of her pocket, gripping the scalpel tightly. She didn't aim for his throat—that would have been too predictable, too tightly guarded. She sidestepped and swung her blade, aiming for the exposed artery on the side of his neck, but he had already reacted.

He retreated at an inhuman speed. The blade missed the main target but slashed a deep gash in his forearm.

A low, soft laugh escaped from his chest—a voice of surprise, yet unsettlingly pleased. That is the sound a predator makes when they notice their prey has teeth.

Suddenly, the elevator shook violently. The emergency lights flickered and lit, casting a dim red glow over the cramped space.

With a loud "ding," the elevator doors slid open, leading to the lobby on the first floor.

The hospital security guard at the front desk hadn't yet processed the scene before the man was gone. He blended into the crowd of evening visitors and staff, disappearing like a ghost into the torrent of the city.

Alice leaned against the elevator wall, one hand covering her bruised throat, gasping for breath. Her eyes were fixed on the direction he had disappeared, her knuckles turning white from gripping the blood-stained little scalpel.