Chapter 2 The Wheelchair Stalker

# Chapter 2: The Wheelchair Stalker

Morning arrived with uncomfortable clarity, sunlight streaming through windows that someone had opened while I slept. I sat up with a jolt, my hand instinctively going to my neck where I'd felt those warm lips the night before.

"Good morning, Mrs. Allen." A uniformed maid stood at the foot of my bed, arranging fresh flowers in a crystal vase. "Breakfast will be served on the east terrace in thirty minutes."

I nodded, trying to appear normal despite the questions screaming in my head. Had someone been in my room while I slept? Again?

"Where is... my husband this morning?" The word "husband" felt foreign on my tongue.

"Mr. Darren is having his morning therapy in the solarium. Would you like to join him?"

"No," I said too quickly. "I mean, I wouldn't want to interrupt his session."

After the maid left, I dressed hurriedly in the simplest outfit I could assemble from the new wardrobe that had mysteriously appeared in my closet—all designer pieces in exactly my size. The tags were removed, but I recognized Chanel when I saw it.

Breakfast was a solitary affair. Maxwell Allen had already left for the office, and I was informed that Darren usually took his meals in his suite under medical supervision.

"Mrs. Allen," a deep voice startled me as I was finishing my coffee. I turned to see Mr. Peters, the family lawyer, standing stiffly by the terrace entrance. "I trust you're settling in well?"

"As well as can be expected when marrying a stranger," I replied, watching his face for a reaction.

Nothing. His professional mask remained intact. "I have the remaining paperwork regarding your brother's medical arrangements. And there's the matter of your allowance."

"Allowance?" I echoed.

"Yes. As Darren's wife, you're entitled to a monthly sum for personal expenses."

He slid a checkbook across the table. I flipped it open and nearly choked on my coffee. The amount was obscene—more than I'd made in a year as a struggling designer.

"There must be some mistake."

"No mistake, Mrs. Allen. Darren was explicit about the figure before his... accident."

Before his accident. Before he became a vegetable. Except, I was increasingly convinced he wasn't as vegetative as everyone claimed.

"Mr. Peters," I ventured carefully, "how exactly did Darren's accident happen?"

Something flickered across his face—caution, perhaps. "A sailing incident last year. He was alone on his yacht during a storm. The details are... unclear."

"And there's no hope for recovery?"

"The doctors say his condition is unlikely to change significantly." His tone suggested the conversation was over. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Allen."

After he left, I wandered the mansion, mapping the enormous house in my mind. East wing, west wing, the solarium where Darren had his therapy, the staff quarters tucked discreetly away from the main living areas.

Eventually, I found myself outside Darren's medical suite. The door was ajar. I hesitated, then peered inside.

A nurse was adjusting equipment beside a hospital-style bed. Darren sat in his wheelchair by the window, staring out at the manicured gardens. From this angle, I could study him properly for the first time.

He was handsome, in a gaunt, aristocratic way. Dark hair fell across his forehead, slightly too long, as if no one had thought to cut it recently. His profile was sharp—straight nose, defined jaw, long eyelashes. If it weren't for the medical equipment and the wheelchair, he could have been a model in one of my designs.

As if sensing my presence, the nurse turned. "Mrs. Allen! Would you like to come in?"

Caught, I had no choice but to enter. "I was just... checking on him."

"That's wonderful. Familiar voices can be very beneficial." She smiled encouragingly. "I'll give you some privacy."

Before I could object, she slipped out, leaving me alone with my "husband."

I approached cautiously, stopping a few feet from his wheelchair. "Hello, Darren."

No response. His eyes remained fixed on some point outside the window.

"I'm Vanessa. Your... wife." The word still felt wrong. "I thought we should properly meet, since we're married and all."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

"Did you come to my room last night?" I asked bluntly, watching his face for any reaction.

His expression remained blank, but I could have sworn his breathing changed slightly. Faster? Shallower?

"If you can understand me, if you're in there somewhere... just know that I'm onto you."

I waited, but he remained still as a statue. After a few more minutes of one-sided conversation, I gave up and left.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. I called Jacob, relieved to hear his voice sounding stronger already. The treatment was working. Whatever this bizarre marriage was, at least it was saving my brother.

That night, I decided to set a trap.

I positioned my phone on the dresser, angled to record the room. Then I made a show of taking a sleeping pill (actually a mint) before climbing into bed and pretending to drift off.

Hours passed. I must have actually fallen asleep at some point because I woke with a start to the sound of my bedroom door opening.

I kept my breathing even, eyes closed but mind alert. The soft whir of a motorized wheelchair. The presence of someone beside my bed.

A gentle touch brushed my hair back from my face. The gesture was so tender it made my heart race, though I fought to keep my expression neutral.

Then I heard something I wasn't prepared for. A voice. Low, slightly rough from disuse, but unmistakably clear.

"Sleep well, Vanessa."

It took every ounce of willpower not to react. The wheelchair hummed as it retreated, the door closing with a soft click.

The moment I was sure he was gone, I bolted upright and grabbed my phone. Hands shaking, I checked the recording.

Nothing. The screen was black.

Frantic, I checked the settings. The camera had been turned off. How? I distinctly remembered starting the recording.

I flung open my bedroom door, looking down the hallway. Empty. But there on the carpet—wheelchair tracks, just like before.

Sleep was impossible after that. At first light, I slipped downstairs, determined to find answers. The house was quiet, the staff not yet stirring. Perfect.

I made my way to the security room I'd spotted during yesterday's explorations. The door was unlocked—an oversight, or arrogance that no one would dare snoop?

Rows of monitors showed different areas of the estate. I scanned them quickly, looking for one that might show my bedroom or the hallway outside it.

There—monitor twelve. I rewound the footage to last night.

3:17 AM. The same time as the night before. A wheelchair appeared at the top of the screen, moving smoothly down the hallway toward my room. The figure in it was unmistakably Darren, operating the controls himself.

My heart pounded as I watched him enter my room, staying for exactly seven minutes before emerging and heading back down the hallway.

I quickly checked other nights. The same pattern repeated. Every night since our wedding, Darren had visited my room at exactly 3:17 AM.

But that wasn't the most disturbing part.

I switched to outdoor camera feeds and rewound to around 1 AM. There he was again, wheeling me—clearly unconscious—through the garden. My head lolled against his shoulder as he maneuvered the chair one-handed along the moonlit paths.

Horror and fascination fought for dominance as I watched him stop by a rose trellis, gently adjusting my sleeping form to keep me from slipping.

A staff member—a gardener, judging by his clothes—appeared on the path. Darren's head snapped up, his posture changing instantly.

The audio was poor, but I could make out his cold command: "Who told you to work at this hour?"

The gardener stammered something inaudible.

Darren's response was crystal clear: "No one disturbs my wife's sleep. Anyone who wakes her will be thrown off this island. Understood?"

The man practically ran from view.

I sat back, stunned. Darren Allen, the supposedly vegetative billionaire I'd married for his money, was not only fully conscious but apparently had been... what? Watching me sleep? Taking me on unconscious midnight garden tours?

I was so absorbed in the footage that I didn't hear the door open behind me.

"Finding everything you need, Mrs. Allen?"

I whirled around to find Mr. Peters standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"I was just..." No plausible excuse came to mind.

"Looking for answers?" he supplied smoothly. "Perfectly understandable. This situation is... unconventional."

"He's faking it," I said flatly. "Darren is fully conscious. Why the charade?"

Peters sighed, straightening his cuffs. "I'm not at liberty to discuss Mr. Allen's medical condition."

"Cut the crap," I snapped. "I have video evidence."

"Do you?" His eyes flicked to the screen where I'd paused the footage—now showing nothing but an empty garden. The recording had been wiped clean while we spoke.

My mouth fell open. "How did you—"

"Mrs. Allen, might I suggest focusing your energy on more productive pursuits? Your design studio has been set up in the east wing, as requested."

I stared at him, incredulous. "You expect me to just ignore this? My husband is drugging me and wheeling me around the property while I'm unconscious!"

"Your husband," Peters said with careful emphasis, "is ensuring you get fresh air during your recurring sleepwalking episodes."

"Sleepwalking? I don't—"

"It's all in your medical file. The one you signed when you agreed to this arrangement."

I hadn't read the fine print. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I stormed past him, heading straight for Darren's suite. This farce ended now.

But when I burst through the door, the room was empty. A nurse informed me that Mr. Darren had been taken to a specialist appointment in the city. How convenient.

Fuming, I retreated to my room to regroup. As I flung open my closet to change, something caught my eye. A door at the back that I hadn't noticed before, partially hidden behind hanging clothes.

I pushed the garments aside and tried the handle. Locked.

Determined, I grabbed a letter opener from the desk and worked at the simple lock until it clicked open.

The door revealed a narrow staircase. Heart pounding, I climbed up to what must have been Darren's private study.

The room was immaculate—leather-bound books lining the walls, a massive desk with three computer monitors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean.

But what made my blood run cold were the photographs. Dozens of them, tastefully framed. All of me.

Me giving a presentation at design school five years ago. Me at a café I used to frequent in the city. Me at my first (and only) fashion showcase. Me shopping, working, living my life—all captured from a distance, without my knowledge.

With trembling hands, I touched a computer mouse. The screen lit up, revealing a paused video—my graduation speech from university.

The playback count: 9,999+.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

He hadn't just married a stranger for some twisted reason. Darren Allen had been stalking me for years.