Poisoned by My Billionaire Husband: The Maid Who Destroyed His Wedding

I was a paralyzed, useless wreck, and I was also the money behind the scenes who had single-handedly made my husband a success. For three years of paralysis, I had believed he was my hands and feet, my whole world. Until the day he pinched my thumb and forced a bright red fingerprint onto the divorce papers. Then he turned around, wrapped his arm around the young, pretty maid who worked in our house, and said to me with open disgust, "You're nothing but a lump of rotting meat now. Don't get in the way of me chasing true love." I was dumped in a nursing home like a bag of trash. A month later, he threw a lavish wedding. To earn a reputation as a loyal, big-hearted man, he made a point of having me wheeled to the ceremony. With tears in my eyes, I watched him lead the maid by the hand to center stage, where the whole room showered them with blessings. But right at the moment they exchanged rings, the maid, always so timid and meek, suddenly let out a cold laugh and shoved the groom off the raised stage. As the crowd cried out, she pulled a document from her wedding gown and slammed it onto the floor. It wasn't a marriage certificate. It was his death warrant. "Press harder! Haven't you eaten? Push it down!" Derek Sullivan's voice exploded in my ear, full of impatience and a wild joy at finally being free. I slumped limply in my wheelchair, my neck tilted to one side, drool trickling uncontrollably from the corner of my mouth. My mind was clear, clearer than it had ever been, but my body was a puddle of mud. I couldn't even move a finger. His big hand, the one with the gold watch, gripped my right hand like a vise. My thumb was smeared with bright red ink. "Evie, don't blame me for being heartless." Derek looked at me with not a trace of feeling for his wife in his eyes, only naked disgust. "For three years, I've cleaned up your piss and shit. I've done more than enough. The company's about to go public, and it needs a new image. It needs a boss's wife who can stand by my side and help me entertain clients, not... a useless cripple who can only drool." I stared at him, a wheezing rasp like a broken bellows rattling in my throat. I wanted to curse him. Curse this man who had once knelt in front of me and sworn to take care of me for the rest of my life. Curse this social-climbing gold digger who had only clawed his way to where he was today on my family's connections and money. But I couldn't produce a single complete syllable. Three years ago, that car crash had taken my health, and it had taken my dignity along with it. Back then, Derek had cried his eyes out in front of the media, swearing he would cure me even if it cost him everything he had. Back then, I was moved. I thought that even though I had lost my legs, I had gained love. Smack! A document slapped down hard on my knees. It was the divorce papers. I had already read the terms. Because of my paralysis, I had been declared a legally incapacitated person. As my legal guardian, he had transferred away almost every asset in my name. All I had left was the right to live on the first floor of this old villa, which had long since been mortgaged, and a "living allowance" of two thousand dollars a month. "Hurry up and press it! Mr. Zane is waiting outside to talk about financing!" Derek lost his patience. With a sudden burst of force, he pinched my thumb and pressed it down hard on that thin sheet of paper. Pain shot through the bone of my finger, as if it were about to be crushed. As the red mark landed on the page, Derek let out a long breath. He let go, pulled a wet wipe from the table with distaste, and scrubbed hard at the fingers that had just touched me, as if I were some germ-carrying virus. "There. From now on, just focus on getting better." He straightened his expensive custom suit and checked himself in the mirror. "I'll let you keep living in this house, and the maid will stay on to look after you. As long as you behave and don't run your mouth to anyone, I'll make sure you've got food to eat." Just then, the bedroom door was pushed open. A strong wave of perfume hit me. It was Chanel No. 5, the scent I used to wear more than any other. "Derek, are you done?" A sugary, coy voice drifted in. With effort, I rolled my eyes toward the door and saw the woman wearing the silk robe I had bought last year and never had the chance to wear: Sophie Quinn. She was the maid who had come to our house six months ago. She said she had just graduated from college, couldn't find a job, and had gone into housekeeping. She was young, pretty, and quick with her hands. Most importantly, she was very good at "taking care" of people. Right now, she didn't look the least bit like a maid. She walked up to Derek and naturally slipped her arm through his. She swept a contemptuous glance over me, as if looking at an old piece of furniture that should have been thrown out. "Done." Derek tucked the divorce papers into his briefcase and casually gave Sophie's butt a squeeze. "Baby, happy now? She's leaving the marriage with nothing." My heart twisted as if a knife were being turned inside it. So it turned out that through every day and night I had spent paralyzed in bed, able only to stare at the ceiling and count the days, the two of them had long been sleeping together, right under my nose, in my own bed. I, Evelyn Hart, had prided myself my whole life on being shrewd and capable. I had turned a tiny workshop into a major company, only to end up beaten by a pair of lowlifes. I couldn't accept it! I couldn't accept it! I struggled with everything I had, wanting to tear those papers to shreds, but all I managed was to make the wheelchair rock slightly. "Oh my, is Sis getting angry?" Sophie came over and looked down at me. She reached out a slender finger and lightly poked my numb, unfeeling cheek. "Don't be mad. If you make yourself sick, you won't even get to spend that two-thousand-dollar allowance." The clatter of a card game and loud laughter drifted in from the living room. From the moment I put my mark on those papers, this house had belonged entirely to the Sullivans. Derek's mother, the old country woman who used to be so timid around me she wouldn't even raise her voice, was now sitting on my leather sofa with her legs crossed, ordering Sophie to feed me. "Sophie, don't give her so much meat! Meat's expensive! She's a cripple, she can't even digest it. What a waste!" The old hag cracked sunflower seeds as she talked, spitting the shells onto the floor. "Just give her some of that thin rice broth with a little bread soaked in it. That'll do." Sophie carried over a bowl of porridge made from boiled-down leftovers and stopped in front of me. "Did you hear that, Sis?" Sophie was all smiles, but her eyes were full of ice. "Mom says you should eat less. It's for your own good. After all, you need someone to help you even to use the bathroom. The more you eat, the more comes out the other end. How disgusting." She scooped up a spoonful of the scalding porridge and, without even blowing on it, shoved it straight into my mouth. "Mmph!" The scalding liquid instantly blistered the inside of my mouth. In agony, I tried to spit it out, but she grabbed my chin, forced it up, and made me swallow. Tears ran from the corners of my eyes, mixing with the drool, leaving me a pathetic mess. "Oh dear, why are you crying?"