Chapter 2: "I've Seen You Naked Before Anyway"
Sophie's POV
Three weeks later, I'm walking down the red carpet at the Morgan estate in a white wedding gown, my hands gripping the handles of Ethan's wheelchair.
The guests' whispers buzz around us like angry wasps.
"What a waste. The Morgan girl marrying a cripple..."
"That Cross boy used to be something. Now look at him..."
"Has to be an arranged marriage. Who'd willingly..."
My fingers tighten on the wheelchair handles.
Assholes.
"Don't listen to them," I lean down and whisper near Ethan's ear. "You protected me so many times when we were kids. Now it's my turn to protect you."
Ethan glances back at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"Thanks," he says quietly.
Uncle George is beaming in the crowd. "They've been perfect for each other since childhood. Finally together at last."
I want to laugh.
This is just an agreement.
Five years and we're done.
But I smile sweetly at Ethan for the cameras.
The ceremony is short and formal. We exchange rings—simple platinum bands that Ethan picked out.
When the officiant says "You may kiss the bride," Ethan takes my hand and pulls me down.
His lips brush against mine, warm and brief.
Like a butterfly landing.
But my heart races anyway.
The guests applaud. Camera flashes go off.
We smile for the photos.
The perfect newlyweds.
Nobody knows this is just a transaction.
After the reception ends, I'm pushing Ethan through the front door of his apartment.
Our apartment now.
I recognize it immediately—the Cross family townhouse, renovated. Three stories of red brick that I used to visit constantly as a kid.
"Remember this place?" Ethan asks. "You were nine when you scraped your knee in the backyard. Cried and said you'd never climb trees again."
I laugh. "And the next day you dragged me right back up."
"Because I knew you weren't actually scared."
I wheel him into the master bedroom. It's spacious and modern, but some old furniture remains—that mahogany desk where Ethan used to do homework.
"Need help with anything?" I ask, watching him maneuver the wheelchair beside the bed.
Ethan goes quiet for a moment. "Actually... I need help with bathing."
I freeze.
Bathing?
Which means...
"But if you're not comfortable, I can call a nurse—" Ethan sees my expression and rushes to add.
"No need." I cut him off, rolling up my sleeves. "We're married. And besides..." I try to sound casual. "I've seen you naked before anyway."
Ethan breaks into an awkward grin.
The bathroom fills with steam.
I help Ethan out of his suit jacket, then start unbuttoning his shirt.
When the white fabric slides off, I completely freeze.
Shit.
This is not the body of someone bedridden.
His abs are defined, every ridge sharp and clear. His chest is solid, shoulders broad and powerful. The muscles in his arms cast shadows under the bathroom lights.
He's... perfect.
"Soph?" Ethan's voice snaps me back to reality.
"Sorry." Heat rushes to my face as I look away quickly. "I just—your body's in really good shape. Your doctor said you've been doing upper body training?"
"Yeah." Ethan's voice sounds tight. "Otherwise the muscles would atrophy."
I nod, grabbing a towel to help wash his back.
But I lean too close, feeling the heat radiating from his skin.
My fingers trace across his shoulder blades, and I feel the muscles tense slightly under my touch.
Ethan's breathing quickens.
"Is the water too hot?" I ask, concerned.
"No." His voice comes out rough. "Keep going."
I continue washing him, but the air grows heavier with each passing second.
The only sounds are running water and our breathing.
When my hand moves to his abs, Ethan suddenly grabs my wrist.
"That's enough." His voice drops low. "I can... handle the rest myself."
I look up at him and notice his face is flushed.
From the steam, or...
"Okay." I stand up quickly. "I'll wait outside."
I practically run out of the bathroom.
Leaning against the door, my heart pounds so hard I think it might burst through my ribs.
Damn damn damn.
I just... reacted to his body.
My head fills with images—his tight muscles, broad shoulders, that face looking even more attractive through the steam.
That night, Ethan insists on sleeping on the living room couch.
"You take the bed," he says. "I'm used to the couch anyway."
I don't argue.
Lying in his bed under his covers, I catch the faint scent of citrus.
I toss and turn, unable to sleep.
All I can see is what happened in the bathroom.
His body.
His breathing.
The strength in his grip when he caught my wrist.
I bury my face in the pillow.
This is going to be a long five years.
