What tragedy was actually a blessing in disguise?
The Test of Paralysis
I got into a car crash and it was the best day of my life. Every billionaire asks themselves the same thing: Would she still love me if I had nothing? The second my airbag deployed, I knew exactly what to do. I texted my assistant, Ila, from the ambulance.
Code silver.
She knew what that meant. By the time we reached my private hospital wing, she’d assembled the team. 50 paid actor employees were ready to help me pretend I was a vegetable. The head of neurology cost 2 million and sold the diagnosis perfectly.
Every nurse signed NDAs worth their mortgages. The doctor announced complete paralysis below the chest, and Elena’s tears broke my heart. She was an angel. She’d fluff my pillows, stroke my hair, and whisper loving words.
But the second we were alone, her face would go cold. Vegetables shouldn’t take this long to die, she’d mutter. Then practice her concerned face in the mirror. She called her ex Dean while standing over me. The accident worked perfectly.
Prenups void for disability. She’d take crying selfies for Instagram, checking follower counts between fake tears. My nurse was actually my head of security, documenting everything. She performed grief like an actress when my mother visited, then immediately called her lawyer.
How much longer until I can pull the plug legally?
My mother, who I’d briefed, played the concerned mother-in-law perfectly, while Elena counted days on her calendar, circling dates in red. Three years of love letters in my desk drawer, and she was already practicing my eulogy.
Week three brought Rick, my best friend since we were 12, my best man twice. He walked into my room and Elena locked the door.
He’s completely gone, she said, snapping fingers in my face, shining phone lights in my eyes.
Watch this, she slapped me hard across the face.
Then again. Rick laughed nervously until she grabbed his hand and put it on her breast.
He can’t feel anything.
We could make love right here.
Rick pulled back, but she pushed harder.
Come on, it’s nothing we haven’t done before.
Plus, you know I’m into voyerism.
My security team watched through hidden cameras as she pulled Rick onto my bed. Imagine inheriting his empire through our kid, she whispered while unzipping his pants 2 ft from my paralyzed body. Rick’s resistance crumbled when she mentioned the billions.
They made love in my bed while I lay there, her wedding ring catching light with each movement. As soon as they left, my lawyers swarmed my room, and I was grateful it was finally over.
Sir, Blake said in a low voice.
Without video proof of attempted murder or conspiracy, she’ll walk away with half your fortune in divorce court.
We need to keep going until she discusses your death on camera.
The irony was palpable. I’d been the one to insist on not getting a prenup. Over the next 4 months, she gave us everything we needed and more.
In month three, she got me declared incompetent using my own paid experts who played their parts. The judge’s ruling was theatrical, everyone knowing their role. My forensic accountant tracked 40 million flowing offshore while she practiced eulogies.
He was the love of my life, she’d rehearse, adding tears on Q. Rick visited daily now for their scheduled sessions in my bed. Our kids inheriting everything, he’d say while she rode him, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She’d describe my death in detail during intimacy. First the facility, then a little morphine accident. The pregnancy test came back positive on week 16.
She waved it in my face.
This is your friend’s baby, but who’s asking for DNA?
She’d research untraceable poisons on my laptop while sitting on my legs.
Paralyzed vegetables don’t need passwords, she’d say, transferring another million. The worst was when she’d bring men home, not just Rick anymore. Dean, her trainer, strangers from bars.
She’d f them in our bed while describing my helplessness. He watches everything but can’t do, she’d tell them. And they’d laugh while using my paralyzed body as a foot rest.
Month four accelerated everything. She booked a date to renew our wedding vows at my Napa estate and invited 500 guests to watch her marry a vegetable. Till death do us part won’t take long, she told Rick while trying on the $100,000 dress in our bedroom.
She’d eat elaborate dinners on my chest, deliberately spilling wine on my face. Vegetables don’t need dignity, she’d say, taking photos for her private collection.
