My Secretly Ripped Paralyzed Husband

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 vision—scrolling 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 sheep’s clothing? I didn’t 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.