My Secretly Ripped Paralyzed Husband

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One year of marriage, and my husband hadn't so much as brushed his skin against mine.

I was at my breaking point, standing on the jagged edge of doing something reckless, when the air in front of me suddenly fractured. Strange, glowing lines of text began to drift across my visionscrolling like a live comment feed on a viral video.

The text claimed my husband wasn't paralyzed at all. It described him as a six-foot-three specimen of pure muscle with a washboard stomach. The comments were graphic, debating the "wild life" the female lead would eventually have with him, filled with details that made my face flush a deep crimson.

I stared at Brooks, lying there in his hospital bed at home. Was this "crippled" husband of mine actually a wolf in sheeps clothing?

I didnt have time to process the madness. Fueled by a mix of fury and curiosity, I ripped the cashmere throw off his legs and straddled him right there on the bed.

Three hundred and sixty-four days into my marriage with Brooks Barret, I finally made a decision:

Today, I was going to find a distraction. A "side piece," if you will.

Dont judge me. It wasn't about being scandalous; it was about survival. I was twenty-two, in the prime of my life, and Id spent a full year married to a man who couldn'tor wouldn'teven hold my hand.

By day, I was his glorified nurse, feeding him and making sure he was hydrated. By night, I retreated to the small guest room next door to count sheep. By the time I hit ten thousand, Id find myself staring at the ceiling, whispering, Tatum, what the hell are you doing?

Was it for the money? The Barrets were old-money wealthy, sure, but Brookss mother treated me like a common thief. Every cent of my monthly allowance was scrutinized. Buying a new lipstick felt like an interrogation at the border.

Was it for him? What could I possibly want from a man who couldn't move from the waist down?

Outside, the late spring sun was gorgeous, dancing over the climbing roses in the courtyard. I stood at the door of Brookss study, watching his profile as he sat in his wheelchair, immersed in a book.

I had to admit, the man was devastatingly handsome. Deep-set eyes, a high bridge to his nose, and a jawline so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. Even sitting down, you could tell he was builtbroad shoulders, long limbs. There was something tragic about a man that powerful being confined to a chair, like a lion in a glass box.

A waste. Truly.

I pulled my gaze away, giving myself a silent pep talk. Tatum, today is the day. That trainer who just moved into the penthouse downstairs? Hes smiled at you three times this week. Thats a green light if I ever saw one.

I slipped into my most form-fitting dress, swiped on a layer of cherry-red gloss, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.

Where are you going?

The voice was low, vibrating through the hallway.

I turned. Brooks had wheeled himself into the corridor, his dark eyes fixed on me. They were like twin inkwells, so deep they made my skin crawl with an inexplicable nervousness.

Just out. For a walk, I said, my voice betraying me by dropping an octave.

He studied me for a long beat, then lowered his gaze. Dont stay out too late.

I murmured a quick agreement and practically bolted out of the house.

By the time I reached the community garden, my guilt had turned to irritation. Why was I the one feeling twitchy? I was allowed to go shopping. I was allowed to exist. I wasn't his property.

The trainer from the penthouse was out walking his golden retriever. He spotted me from a distance and waved, a bright grin on his face. Looking beautiful today, Tatum!

My heart lifted. I was just about to walk over and strike up a conversation when

The world exploded in neon text.

[LOL, the side-character wife is actually going out to cheat!]

[Girls, get in here! The livestream is getting juicy!]

[Tatum is such a moron. She really thinks the male lead is paralyzed? Shes literally ignoring a six-foot-three god with an eight-pack for a basic gym bro?]

I froze, blinking rapidly. The words floated in the air like digital graffiti, drifting past my eyes.

What the hell?

I looked around. The trainer was still playing with his dog; neighbors were power-walking by. No one else reacted to the glowing sentences hanging in the air.

Was I the only one seeing this?

[LMAO, the actual heroine doesnt even show up for another three chapters. The wife is already losing her mind.]

[Relax, babes! The real show starts when the heroine arrives. Brooks has that lethal athleticism, if you know what I mean. Total alpha energy.]

[SPOILER ALERT: He sneaks into his private gym every night. Five hundred pushups, minimum.]

[If the wife actually touches him, Ill scream. Our sweet heroine needs him to stay pure!]

[Im literally drooling thinking about the heroines long nights with him once he recovers. Power-bottom energy.]

I stood there, feeling like Id been struck by lightning.

Brooks isn't paralyzed? Eight-pack? Lethal athleticism?

Were they talking about Brooks? My Brooks? The man I had to help use the bathroom?

I pinched my arm hard.

It hurt. This wasn't a dream.

The text kept scrolling:

[HIGH ENERGY ALERT! Does the wife see us?]

[Impossible. The system has her blocked. Shes just an NPC.]

[I dont know, the last world we watched had a glitch. She looks spooked.]

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I forced my face into a mask of indifference and turned back toward the house.

Tatum? Leaving already? the trainer called out.

I didn't even look back.

Back inside, Brooks was still in the study, in the exact same position.

I stood in the doorway, watching him for a long time. He was turning a page, the sunlight casting a halo of gold over his features. His lashes were thick, casting soft shadows on his cheekbones.

He looked exactly the same.

But my eyes drifted, uncontrollable now, toward his legs. The cashmere blanket covered everything. For a year, Id never seen those legs move. Id bathed him, and his muscles always felt soft, useless.

But the comments said

Is there something on my face?

Brooks looked up, catching my stare. My heart skipped a beat.

Youre just handsome, I blurted out, a total lie.

He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. I caught a faint, fleeting trace of a flush on the tips of his ears.

I stared at that hint of red, my mind racing. Faking it for a year? Why?

The Barrets were rich, sure, but his parents were gone. The company was run by a board. A paralyzed man wasn't a threat to anyone. His uncle was a shark, but Brooks-in-a-wheelchair was out of the way.

Unless he wasn't just hiding. He was waiting.

The comments said the "heroine" would arrive in three chapters. Was I in a book? A "supporting character" destined to be discarded? And what was this "long nights" nonsense?

Ill admit it: I was pissed.

That evening, I brought in his nightly basin of warm water to soak his feet. Usually, Id just set it down, pull off his socks, dunk his feet, and give them a perfunctory scrub.

Tonight was different.

I set the basin down and knelt before him, but I didn't reach for his shoes immediately.

Everything okay? he asked, looking down at me.

I looked up, flashing a bright, manic smile. I just realized I haven't been taking very good care of you, honey. Let me really look after you tonight.

His expression stiffened for a fraction of a second.

I ignored it. I slid his feet out of his slippers and eased them into the water. The temperature was perfect. I wrapped my hands around his ankles and slowly, deliberately, began to slide my palms upward.

His calf muscle twitched.

It was microscopic, a mere flicker of life, but because I was hyper-focused, I felt it.

My stomach did a somersault. A paralyzed man doesn't have reactive muscle fibers.

I didn't look up. I kept moving my hands higher, massaging with intent. You have such long legs, Brooks. Its such a shame. If you could stand, youd be the most striking man in any room.

He didn't say a word.

When I reached his knees, I felt the quadriceps beneath his slacks turn as hard as granite. But as soon as I squeezed, the muscle went slack again.

He was fighting it. He was exercising immense self-control.

Interesting.

When I finished, I dried his feet and stood up with the basin. Get some rest.

Yeah.

I reached the door and glanced back. He was sitting with his back to me, his shoulders set in a rigid, tense line.

I smiled to myself.

Back in my room, I lay on the bed, eyes wide. The comments said he practiced boxing and did five hundred pushups a night. The room next to the study was the home gymit was always locked. They told me it was for his safety, so he wouldn't try to go in there alone and hurt himself.

Now I realized: the lock wasn't to keep him out. It was to keep me out.

I waited until 1:00 AM.

The house was as silent as a tomb. I crept out of bed, barefoot, and slipped into the hallway. Brookss bedroom door was closed, but a sliver of light escaped from the bottom.

Still awake?

I hugged the wall, inching toward the door. I peeked through the crack.

Empty. The wheelchair was empty. The bed was empty.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned toward the end of the hall. The gym door was slightly ajar, and the dull, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a heavy bag echoed through the air.

I moved like a ghost, peering through the gap.

And then, I stopped breathing.

In the center of the gym, a massive man, shirtless and glistening with sweat, was laying into a punching bag. The overhead lights caught the rippling muscles of his back. His shoulder blades moved like gears, his physique lean and lethal, like a predator. Every punch landed with a force that made the heavy bag groan.

He was easily six-foot-three. Broad shoulders, a tapering waist, and abs so defined they looked carved from marble. The line of his hips disappeared into his low-slung gym shorts

I swallowed hard.

This was my "paralyzed" husband?

The comments hadn't lied.

He trained for another twenty minutes, his final blow sending the bag flying back at a violent angle. He stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping down the carved valleys of his stomach.

I prepared to retreat

But he turned his head suddenly, his gaze piercing the darkness toward the door.

My heart nearly leaped out of my throat. I dropped into a crouch.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached.

I covered my mouth, holding my breath until it burned. The footsteps stopped at the door for two agonizing seconds, then slowly faded away.

I slumped against the floor, my legs shaking.

The next morning, I was sporting dark circles under my eyes as I served him breakfast. He sat in his chair, taking the bowl of oatmeal, and gave me a long look. Didn't sleep well?

Oh? No, no. I slept great, I lied, waving a hand dismissively.

He didn't press it. He just went back to his meal.

I watched his handthe way his fingers gripped the spoon. Strong, capable, steady. These were the hands that had been brutalizing a heavy bag just hours ago.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Hed let me wait on him hand and foot for a year. Hed played the part so perfectly, even letting me help him in the bathroom! Was he laughing at me the whole time?

And then there was this "heroine" coming in three chapters. What was I? A placeholder? A footstool?

The text started scrolling again:

[The wife is acting weird today. Shes staring at Brooks like she wants to eat him.]

[Did she find out? No way.]

[Nah, Brooks has been playing this role for a year. Hes basically an Oscar winner at this point.]

[Poor Tatum. Once the heroine arrives, shes getting written out.]

Written out?

My grip tightened on my spoon. Did that mean death? Divorce? Exile?

Whatever it was, I wasn't going quietly.

I set my spoon down and looked Brooks in the eye. He was the picture of harmlessness.

Brooks, I said.

He looked up.

I gave him my most radiant, fake smile. Its beautiful out. Let me take you for a walk in the gardens.

He paused, then nodded. Fine.

I wheeled him to the sunniest spot in the courtyard. Then, I knelt before him, looking up into his face. The sun was behind him, casting his features in shadow, making his dark eyes seem even deeper.

Brooks, I whispered.

Yes?

This past year has it been hard for you?

His eyes flickered. What do you mean?

I didn't answer. I stood up and moved behind him, pushing the chair slowly. There was a path made of uneven cobblestones. I steered him right over them, letting the chair jolt and vibrate violently.

His body shook with the impact, but he didn't move to steady himself. He didn't stand.

I looked at his legs. The blanket hid everything. But I noticed his handsthey were gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were white.

It wasn't fear. It was control. He was forcing himself to stay seated.

I suppressed a cold laugh.

Wait here, Brooks. Ill go get you some water.

Alright.

I turned toward the house. Halfway there, I glanced back. He was looking down at his legs. I couldn't see his face, but I saw his fingers tap a rhythmic beat against the cashmere throw.

It looked like a code.

I walked inside as if I hadn't seen a thing.

That night, I made a choice.

If the comments said I was going to be "written out," I was going to get mine first. Six-foot-three, washboard abs, and that lethal build? Why should the "heroine" get all the fun?

When I brought his foot-soaking water that night, I wore my thinnest silk nightgown. No bra.

When I bent over to set the basin down, the neckline dipped dangerously low. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze snag on me for a heartbeat before he jerked his head away.

Brooks, let me give you a real massage tonight, I said, kneeling and pulling his hand onto my lap. Youve been so patient this year. It must be miserable, being trapped in this body.

His fingers twitched. He tried to pull away.

I held on tight. Don't be shy. A wife is supposed to take care of her husband.

He stopped resisting, but his entire body went taut. I pulled his feet from the water, dried them, and rested them against my thighs. Then, I began to knead his calves, moving slowly upward.

His muscles were like stones, vibrating slightly under my touch.

Does that feel good? I asked, looking up.

He was staring down at me, his eyes dark with something terrifying. Tatum.

Mmm?

What exactly are you doing?

I blinked, playing the innocent. Taking care of my husband. What else?

He stared at me for a long time, then reached out and gripped my chin. It wasn't painful, but it was authoritative.

Youve been different today, he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. Ever since this morning.

My heart was thumping like a drum, but I kept smiling. Youre imagining things. I just realized I haven't been a very good wife this year, and I want to make it up to you.

He searched my eyes for an eternity, as if trying to read my soul. Finally, he let go and leaned back. Thats enough. Go to bed.

I didn't move.

I said, go to bed.

I stood up, took the basin, and walked to the door. I looked back one last time. He was looking down, his legs under the blanket perfectly straight and rigid.

I smiled. No rush. We had all night.

But my plans met a sudden roadblock.

Before I could make my next move, the "Heroine" arrived.

The next day, Brookss mother showed up unannounced. And she wasn't alone.

This is Maisie, my mother-in-law said, beaming as she held the young womans hand. Ive hired her to help look after Brooks. Youve had a long year, Tatum. You deserve a break. Maisie will take over from here.

I looked at Maisie.

Heart-shaped face, soft brows, and eyes that always looked like they were on the verge of happy tears. She was slenderthe kind of girl a man could wrap a single hand around her waist. She spoke in a voice like spun sugar.

The text exploded:

[AHHHH! The heroine is finally here! My sweet Maisie!]

[Ive waited three chapters for this! Totally worth it.]

[Brooks, look at her! Thats your soulmate!]

[Tatum can pack her bags now. Bye-bye, side character.]

I gripped my glass of water so hard I thought it might shatter.

So this was the "Heroine."

The comments claimed she was the "Chosen One"kind, gentle, the only one who could "save" the broken hero.

Maisie walked over to Brooks, leaning down with a soft, saccharine voice. Mr. Barret, its such an honor. Im Maisie. Ill be taking very good care of you.

Brooks looked at her, gave a curt nod, and remained expressionless.

But the fans were losing it:

[That look! Hes totally into her!]

[The stoic hero and the healing angel. Im literally sobbing.]

[Just wait, in a few chapters hell stand up just for her.]

[Tatum, get out of the shot. Youre ruining the aesthetic.]

I stood there, watching Maisie flutter around him. She brought him water; she adjusted his blanket with "tender" hands; she charmed his mother with every word.

His mother was glowing. See? What a lovely girl.

I stood in the corner, feeling like a ghost in my own home.

Maisie cooked dinner.

Four courses, perfectly plated. My mother-in-law was full of praise. Maisie, this is delicious! Brooks, try some.

Brooks took a bite. I noticed a slight furrow in his brow.

Maisie watched him, her eyes shining. Do you like it, Mr. Barret?

Its fine, he murmured.

Maisie blushed.

[He said its fine! Hes usually so silent!]

[Shes so cute when she blushes.]

[Theyre perfect for each other. Im dead.]

I ate my dinner in silence. My stomach hurt.

That night, I tossed and turned. The "Fated Heroine" was here. He was supposed to fall for her, stand up for her, and have those "long nights" with her.

And me? I was just the girl whod be kicked to the curb.

I stared at the ceiling, fuming. Suddenly, I heard a faint noise.

I sat up. There it was again. Coming from the gym.

I crept to the door and peeked out. The gym door was ajar, light spilling into the hall. But tonight was different.

Someone was standing at the door.

Maisie.

She was wearing a white, lacy nightgown, peering into the gym. My heart hammered.

Then, the massive shadow inside stopped moving. Brooks walked to the door, looking down at Maisie. The light was behind him, turning him into a dark, imposing silhouette.

Its late. Why aren't you in bed? his voice was a low rumble.

Maisie looked up, her eyes watery. I I couldn't sleep. I heard a noise and Mr. Barret, your legs

Brooks was silent for a beat. You saw.

I wont tell anyone! she gasped, waving her hands. I promise! Your secret is safe with me!

Brooks looked at her for a long time, then a faint smirk played on his lips. It was a look Id never seen him give me.

Come in, he said.

Maisie blinked, then followed him into the gym. The door clicked shut.

I sat on the floor of the hallway, frozen.

[OMG! Shes already in the inner circle!]

[Late night gym session? We know where this is going...]

[Is he finally going to open up to her?]

[Tatum is literally sleeping next door while her husband is with the real lead. Brutal.]

I clenched my fists. Fine. Great. Perfect.

The next morning, I went downstairs with heavy eyes.

Maisie was already in the kitchen, humming a song as she fried eggs. She wore a cute floral apron. Morning, Tatum! Breakfast is almost ready.

Morning, I muttered, sitting at the table.

Brooks was already there in his chair, a cup of black coffee in front of him. He glanced at me, lingering on my tired face. Rough night?

No. I slept like a baby, I snapped.

Maisie brought a plate of eggs to Brooks. Here you go, Mr. Barret. Over-easy, just the way you like them.

Brooks took a bite. Maisie watched him expectantly. How is it?

Good.

She beamed. Then she set a plate in front of me. The eggs were rubbery, the edges burnt to a crisp.

[Maisie is so thoughtful! She knows exactly how he likes his eggs.]

[LMAO, did she burn Tatums on purpose?]

[Heroine vibes: I only cook well for the male lead. The side character gets the scraps.]

I ate the burnt eggs without a word.

After breakfast, the mother-in-law returned. She held Maisies hands. Maisie, Im trusting you with him. Let me know if you need anything at all.

Youre too kind, Mrs. Barret. Its my pleasure, Maisie chirped.

The mother-in-law glanced at me, her tone cooling. Tatum, since Maisie is here to help, you can finally take a back seat.

Translation: Get lost.

Of course, I said with a tight smile.

Once his mother left, Maisie was everywhere. Water for Brooks. Meds for Brooks. Reading the paper to Brooks. I sat on the sofa like a piece of furniture.

In the afternoon, Brooks wanted some sun. Maisie jumped up. Ill take you!

Before I could even stand, she was already wheeling him out. I stood by the window, watching them in the garden. The sun was bright. Maisie was kneeling by his chair, looking up at him, laughing. Brooks was looking down at her, saying something I couldn't hear.

[This is so aesthetic. Screenshotting for my wallpaper.]

[The way he looks at her is so tender. Im melting.]

[Tatum is watching from the window like a creep.]

[Write her out already! Shes in the way.]

I turned away from the window. Back in my room, I sat on the bed. The comments said in a few chapters, hed stand up for her. Theyd fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. And Id be gone.

Is that it? Is that the end of my story?

I don't think so.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

At 1:00 AM, the gym noises started again. I crept to the door. Again, Maisie was there in her nightgown. Brooks came out, they whispered, and he reached out

My heart stopped as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His movement was so gentle, as if she were made of porcelain. Maisie looked up at him with stars in her eyes.

The door shut behind them.

I went back to bed, but I didn't sleep a wink.

By dawn, I had made a decision. If the "Heroine" wanted a fight, she was going to get one. Why should she get the six-foot-three god with the lethal build?

That night, after my shower, I put on my most provocative silk slip. No underwear.

I walked to Brookss bedroom and knocked.

Enter.

I pushed the door open. He was leaning against the headboard, reading a book. He wore charcoal pajamas, the top two buttons undone.

When he saw me, his breath hitched. Tatum?

I walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. His throat moved as he swallowed.

Brooks, I whispered.

He didn't speak. I reached out and placed my hand on his chest. Through the thin fabric, I could feel the hard, rhythmic thumping of his heart and the terrifyingly solid lines of his muscle.

This past year must have been so exhausting for you, I said softly. Pretending to be paralyzed it must be such a burden.