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Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle
Twenty minutes before the "Wedding of the Century" at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire. I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I didn't scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he'd dump "that hillbilly trash" on a bus back to the mountains. They weren't just cheating; they were planning to steal my family's land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn't apologize. They called me a "greedy peasant" and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock. I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim. "If we don't have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity," their lawyer warned. So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn't marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months. Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I've suspended Hugh's executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I'm just a gold-digger waiting for a "corpse" to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow's payout. But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back."Momma, where are you?" Paige's weak voice crackled through the phone's speakers, trembling with fear.
Joana gripped the steering wheel tighter, her heart pounding. "I'm on my way, baby. Just take deep breaths," she replied, trying to keep her voice calm, though her mind was filled with worry.
She drove as fast as she could without drawing the attention of the police. Every second felt like an eternity, and just when she thought she was making good time, she came across a red light. It felt like a cruel joke, as if the universe was conspiring against her.
The traffic light seemed to mock her, taking a really long time to turn green. Joana drummed her fingers on the steering wheel anxiously, her eyes darting between the traffic light and the road ahead. Finally, when the light turned green, she stepped on the gas pedal.
Joana's hands shook as she parked the car and sprinted into the house. "Paige, I'm hom..." Her voice caught in her throat when she saw a pair of panties on the sofa.
She approached slowly, her heart sinking with each step. The panties were pink, a color Joana never wore, and it was far too large to belong to Paige.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs behind her, and Joana turned to see a naked woman bolting down the steps. Joana's eyes widened in shock as she recognized the woman, Martha, her sister.
James, her husband, appeared on the stairs, chasing after Martha. The color drained from his face when he saw Joana standing there, frozen in disbelief.
"Jo-joana, it's n-not what it looks like," James stuttered, but Joana barely heard him. The cliche excuse only fueled her anger, but she couldn't deal with it now.
"PAIGE!" Joana shouted, pushing past the two of them as she raced upstairs. Her daughter needed her, and that was all that mattered.
She burst into Paige's room, only to find it empty. Panic was all she felt as she screamed, "PAIGE! WHERE ARE YOU?"
A weak grunt from the far side of the room caught her attention. She rushed over and found Paige wedged between the bed and the wall, her tiny body limp and unmoving.
"M...Mom..." Paige mumbled weakly before her eyes fluttered shut, succumbing to the pain.
.
.
.
The call had come out of nowhere, leaving Joana wondering where James was and why he couldn't help their daughter. She had assumed he had gone out to get an inhaler, but after Paige's second frantic call, Joana grew suspicious.
James was always attentive to Paige's needs, never leaving her without checking that she had her inhaler. But now, as Joana watched her daughter being wheeled into the hospital, she wished she had driven faster, ignored that damn red light, and not wasted precious moments confronting the traitors in her living room.
"You can't come in," a nurse said, blocking Joana from entering the ICU. Helpless, she sank into a chair in the lobby, her mind racing with worry.
"Joana?" A familiar voice called out. It was Regina, her friend and a doctor at the hospital. "What are you doing here?"
Joana tried to speak, but her voice was lost in a torrent of tears. "Is it Paige?" Regina asked softly. Joana nodded, and Regina pulled her into a comforting hug.
"She's going to be fine," Regina assured her. "The doctors are doing their best."
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