Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Disabled Husband

Jillian Wilcox POV:

The damp, narrow staircase of my old apartment building creaked under my boots as I climbed to the third floor.

I unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside.

Walking straight into the bedroom, I pulled two battered canvas suitcases out from under the bed, unzipped them, and threw them open across the mattress.

I refused to take a single item that Chalmers had paid for.

I left the expensive silk dresses he had bought for his business galas hanging in the closet and left the pearl earrings and the velvet jewelry boxes on the dresser.

Instead, I packed only what was truly mine: my wool sweaters, my sturdy boots, my precision brass calipers, my agate burnishers, and my jars of cold-extracted natural mineral pigments.

Most importantly, I went straight to the locked metal cabinet beneath my work desk.

Inside lay three heavy leather binders containing dozens of ancient parchment sheets—the sacred Latin sigils and protective warding blueprints I had spent five agonizing years deciphering and repairing by hand.

These manuscripts were the foundation of every major contract Chalmers's agency had landed over the past three years.

Without them, the Maddox Agency was nothing more than an empty shell with a mountain of overdue invoices.

I packed the binders into the center of my heavy trunk, wrapping them securely in canvas.

Just as I pulled the final zipper shut, the front door of the apartment slammed open with a violent crash that rattled the picture frames on the wall.

Heavy footsteps pounded across the cheap floorboards, and Chalmers burst into the bedroom doorway, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.

His designer suit jacket was rumpled, his silk tie pulled askew, and he reeked of hospital antiseptic mixed with the cloying, synthetic almond scent of Edla's expensive perfume.

He skidded to a halt, his eyes landing on the packed suitcases on the bed.

The panicked expression on his face instantly vanished, replaced by an arrogant, indignant scowl.

"Jillian, what the hell is this?" he demanded, stepping into the room and tossing his car keys onto the desk. "What kind of childish game are you playing now?"

I didn't look at him.

I grabbed my coat from the bedpost and pulled it over my shoulders, smoothing down the collar with deliberate calm.

"I asked you a question!" Chalmers snapped, his voice rising as he reached out to grab my wrist.

I stepped sideways, letting his hand grasp empty air.

"Edla had a severe emergency," Chalmers said, puffing out his chest as he tried to reassert control. "She was terrified, in absolute agony, and she needed someone she trusted to take her to the surgical ward. I did what any decent, honorable gentleman would do for an old family friend. You threw a public tantrum, humiliated me in front of our entire social circle, and walked out of our own church over a minor misunderstanding!"

I picked up my leather tool roll, checked the buckles, and placed it inside my satchel.

"Five years, Chalmers," I said quietly, turning to face him. "Forty-seven emergencies. Every anniversary, every major gallery exhibition, and today, our wedding. Every single time, Edla scratches a finger or sprains an ankle, and you drop everything to play her savior."

Chalmers's face flushed an ugly shade of red.

"She is fragile, Jillian! She doesn't have your cold, mechanical endurance! A normal, loving woman would have supported me today, but instead, you made a scene."

He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a smug, condescending sneer.

"You think you can just pack up and walk out? Look around this town. The Maddox family owns half the commercial leases on the main avenue. Who is going to hire an unsponsored restorer without a family name? You don't have a dime of independent capital, and you don't have anywhere else to go. Stop this ridiculous bluff, unpack those bags, and maybe I'll consider rescheduling the ceremony for next month."

I met his gaze, the quiet weight of my Mind Sanctuary rendering his threats completely powerless against my pulse.

"You're right about one thing, Chalmers," I said, lifting the first suitcase off the bed. "I am leaving. But our wedding isn't being rescheduled. It's over. You forfeited your place the second you drove past that church."