"Don't expect me to take a single step towards the altar if that certificate isn't in my hands."

Ziva stared at her reflection in the dressing mirror. The white wedding gown that draped her body felt like a shroud, constricting and cold. Behind her, a middle-aged man in an expensive, slightly tight suit seemed to grit his teeth. His face was flushed red with suppressed anger.

"Don't play crazy, Ziva! The invited guests have arrived. The Drystan family is waiting in front. Do you want to embarrass Uncle Haryo, huh?!" her uncle snapped, his voice restrained, afraid of being heard by people outside the room.

Ziva turned her body, looking straight into her uncle's eyes without the slightest fear. "Embarrass? You're the one gambling with your own life by selling your niece to pay off gambling debts. If I call off the wedding, who will the Drystan people chop up? Me or you?"

Haryo fell silent. Cold sweat began to trickle down his temples. He knew Ziva wasn't bluffing. This niece of his may seem calm, but her brain works at lightning speed.

"Attorney Salim!" Ziva called out, ignoring Haryo's ragged breathing.

A bespectacled man who had been standing stiffly in the corner of the room stepped forward. He opened his briefcase with trembling hands. "The documents are ready, Miss Ziva. The house certificate in your parents' name, the title transfer deed, and the deed of release of rights from Mr. Haryo."

"What are you waiting for? Give it to her!" Haryo snatched the documents roughly from the lawyer's hand and threw them onto the dressing table in front of Ziva. "Are you satisfied? You ungrateful child! You've been taken care of since you were little, now you're extorting your own uncle."

Ziva didn't care about the curses. Her slender fingers—the fingers of a surgeon accustomed to holding a scalpel—were now carefully turning each page of the document. She checked the stamps, signatures, and authenticity of the certificate paper. There were no loopholes. Her parents' legacy was safe.

Ziva took a pen, signed the receipt section, then put the valuable certificate into her wedding clutch.

"Our business is done," Ziva muttered coldly. She stood up, adjusting the veil on her head. "Remember, Uncle. After this moment, I'm no longer your concern. And don't you ever dare set foot in my house again."

Haryo snorted roughly, then signaled to the wedding organizer to open the door. "Hurry up. Don't be a disgrace."

The wedding procession proceeded at lightning speed, as if everyone wanted to end it quickly.

There were no touching vows, no loving gazes. All there were were appraising glances from the whispering wedding guests, mocking Ziva's fate of having to marry a "crippled monster" from the Drystan family for wealth.

Ziva didn't care. She just stood up straight, saying "I do" in a flat tone as if ordering coffee, then let herself be ushered into the black limousine that would take her to her new hell.

The journey to the Drystan Family's main residence felt silent. The driver in front didn't say a word.

Ziva leaned her head against the car window, staring at the tall buildings rushing outside. She didn't cry.

Her tears had dried up since the day of her parents' funeral. Now, all that was left was logic.

The car stopped in front of a gloomy, classic European-style mansion. The yard was spacious, filled with neatly trimmed but rigid trees.

"Please get out, Miss," the driver said while opening the door.

A middle-aged female servant with a stiff face was already waiting in front of the main door. Without a smile, without a warm welcome. "Come with me. Mr. Elzian doesn't like to wait."

Ziva followed the servant's steps along a long corridor with cold marble floors. The walls were filled with abstract paintings that added to the house's eerie impression.

There were no family photos. No fresh flower vases.

This house was dead.

"This is Mr. Elzian's room. He's inside," said the servant, stopping in front of a large double teak wood door. The servant didn't even bother opening the door. She immediately turned away, as if afraid of being infected with bad luck if she lingered there.

Ziva took a deep breath. Here it is, she thought. Part of the agreement. She had gotten her house back, now she had to face her 'buyer'.

Her hand reached out to turn the cold doorknob. The door opened silently, its hinges perfectly oiled.

The room was spacious and dimly lit. The window curtains were tightly closed, blocking the afternoon sunlight. The air inside felt several degrees colder than outside, with a faint antiseptic smell mixed with a masculine cinnamon aroma.

Ziva stepped inside, the sound of her high heels muffled by the thick carpet. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for her husband.

In the corner of the room, near the closed window, a wheelchair was facing away from her.

A man sat there, motionless like a statue. His back was straight, too straight for someone who was reportedly completely paralyzed and dying.

"Close the door," the voice sounded low, heavy, and full of dominance. Not a request, but an absolute command.

Ziva pushed the door closed with a soft click. Her heart beat a little faster, not because of fear, but because of the adrenaline she usually felt before performing a difficult operation.

The wheelchair slowly turned.

Ziva held her breath. The man, Elzian Drystan, was looking at her. His face was handsome but hard, with a firm jaw that seemed carved from granite. But the most intimidating thing was his eyes. Those eyes were dark, sharp, and cold, staring at Ziva as if she were a germ that had to be eradicated, not a wife.

There was no tenderness in that gaze. There was only intense hatred.

"Get out. You think I'll touch you?" Elzian's voice broke the silence, chilling to the bone. "I'm paralyzed."

"Good. So I can sleep soundly without having to serve you."

Ziva's answer slipped out so easily, casually, and without any burden. There was no hint of disappointment or fear on her beautiful face. She actually looked... relieved?

Elzian Drystan was silent for a moment. His thick eyebrows furrowed sharply. This reaction was not what he had expected. Usually, the women sent to his room would cry hysterically, beg for mercy, or run away screaming at the sight of his leg condition. But this woman casually removed her bridal veil, threw it onto a random chair, then plopped down onto the velvet sofa across from Elzian.

"Didn't you hear? I said get out," Elzian growled. His voice was low, like the rumble of restrained thunder.

Ziva took off her high heels one by one, sighing with pleasure as her feet touched the soft carpet. "Get out where? This is our bridal suite. Besides, I already got my house certificate. The deal is that I become your wife, live here, and you guarantee the security of my assets. There's no clause that says I have to leave the room just because my husband is moody."

"You have some nerve," Elzian scoffed. His hand gripped the wheelchair handle until his knuckles turned white. "You think because you're a doctor, you can act arrogant here? In this house, your title is worthless. You're just collateral for debt."

Ziva turned, her gaze sharpening. She got up from the sofa, walking slowly towards Elzian's wheelchair. Her steps were calm, measured, exactly like a predator observing its prey.

"Don't come closer," Elzian hissed.

Ziva ignored the warning. She stopped right in front of Elzian's knees. The scent of the man's masculine cologne wafted strongly, mixed with a dense aura of danger. But for Ziva, danger was an everyday companion on the operating table.

"You know, Elzian," Ziva said softly, her eyes sweeping over Elzian's legs covered in black trousers. "As a neurosurgeon, I've seen hundreds of cases of paralysis. Paraplegia, tetraplegia... I know them all."

Without warning, Ziva knelt down. Her hand reached out quickly to touch Elzian's calf.

"Let go!" Elzian jerked his leg away—a reflex.

The movement was very small, almost invisible to the untrained eye. But for Ziva, it was enough. A wry smile appeared on her red lips.

"Wow," Ziva murmured, her fingers now pressing strongly on Elzian's calf muscle, deliberately searching for the nerve points. "Interesting reflexes for someone who's been 'completely paralyzed' for two years."

"Get your hands off me or I'll break them," Elzian threatened, but he didn't immediately brush Ziva's hand away. He froze, wary.

Ziva looked up, staring straight into the man's black eyes. "Your gastrocnemius muscle is tight. Dense. There are no signs of atrophy or muscle shrinkage at all. If you were really paralyzed and sitting in this wheelchair for two years, your legs should have shrunk, withered like dry twigs. But this?"

Ziva patted Elzian's knee lightly, her tone full of mockery. "These are the legs of a runner, not the legs of a cripple."

Elzian's jaw hardened. The veins in his neck bulged, holding back the anger that was beginning to explode.

Ziva stood up slowly, bringing her face closer until their noses almost touched. She stared intently into Elzian's eyes, analyzing every micro-twitch on her husband's face.

"And look at your eyes," Ziva continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Your pupils dilated when I touched you earlier. That's a sympathetic nervous system response. Fight or flight. Your body is on alert. You're tense. You're not paralyzed, Husband. You're just a master con artist with terrible acting."

Silence.

The atmosphere in the room changed ominously in a matter of seconds. The air felt heavy, as if oxygen were being forcibly drawn from the room.

Elzian looked at Ziva with an unreadable expression. The glint in his eyes was no longer just cold, but deadly. His secret—the ace card he had guarded fiercely from his business enemies, even from his own family—had just been stripped bare by a woman he had known for less than six hours.

"You think you're smart, Doctor Ziva?" Elzian asked softly. Too softly.

"I don't think I'm smart. I am smart," Ziva retorted arrogantly. "So, stop putting on an act in front of me. It's disgusti—"

BANG!

Ziva's sentence was forcibly cut off.

The wheelchair was pushed back roughly. In the blink of an eye, a tall, large figure loomed before her. Elzian Drystan stood. Upright, solid, and towering, much taller than Ziva.

Before Ziva could back away, a large, strong hand gripped her neck, pushing her back until her back slammed hard against the bedroom wall.

"Ugh!" Ziva coughed, her hands reflexively clawing at the sleeves of Elzian's shirt, which now locked off her airway.

Elzian's face was now directly in front of her face. There was no longer a weak man in a wheelchair. What stood before her was the real monster. The muscles in the man's arms tensed perfectly, proving Ziva's diagnosis one hundred percent accurate. His strength was enormous.

Elzian's eyes flashed wildly, staring at Ziva like a lion ready to tear its prey's neck. The corner of his lips lifted into a cruel sneer that made her hair stand on end.

"Congratulations, Wife," Elzian whispered right in Ziva's ear, his voice hoarse and terrifying. His grip on Ziva's neck tightened, restricting her air supply, but not enough to kill—only to give an absolute warning. "A brilliant medical analysis."

Ziva gasped for air, but her eyes remained wide, refusing to submit.

"But you forgot one thing," Elzian continued coldly. He brought his face closer, staring into Ziva's teary eyes, which were beginning to water from lack of oxygen. "People who know too much usually have a short lifespan."

"Just kill me. But make sure you have another doctor who can detect poison in your coffee tomorrow morning."

Ziva uttered those words with the last of her breath. Her face began to turn red, but her eyes didn't blink even slightly as she stared into Elzian's black eyes. There was no plea for mercy, only a crazy challenge.

Elzian's grip on Ziva's neck didn't loosen, it only tightened. "What do you mean?"

"Your breath..." Ziva coughed slightly, gently hitting the muscular arm that was choking her. "A faint almond scent. Micro doses of cyanide? Or modified arsenic? You're pretending to be paralyzed not just to deceive your enemies, but because your body is actually recovering from nerve poison, right?"

Elzian's forehead furrowed deeply. The murderous glint in his eyes slowly turned into high alert. He released his grip suddenly.

Ziva slumped slightly, coughing as she held her neck, which now had red marks. She inhaled oxygen greedily, but a second later, she was looking up again, smiling wryly as if she had just won the lottery.

"My guess is correct, isn't it?" Ziva attacked directly, her voice hoarse but sharp. "Your personal doctor is stupid if he doesn't realize that the poison is still in your system. Or maybe... is it your doctor who poisoned you?"

Elzian took a step back. He looked at the woman in front of him with a new perspective. Ziva Magdonia wasn't just beautiful and brave, she was dangerous. And Elzian liked danger.

"Who sent you?" Elzian asked coldly. He sat back in his wheelchair with a fluid motion, hiding his physical strength behind the facade of paralysis.

"No one. I came on my own behalf for my house," Ziva replied, smoothing her crumpled wedding dress. She walked towards the dressing table, took a wet wipe, and casually cleaned her neck, as if the choke marks were just lipstick stains. "Listen, Mr. CEO. We're both trapped. Your family—whoever they are—wants you to die slowly so it looks like a natural death. And my uncle wants my wealth."

Ziva turned, leaning her hip on the dressing table with her arms crossed. "I'm offering a business deal."

Elzian raised an eyebrow. "You dare to negotiate with me after almost dying?"

"Why not? Your life is on the line, Elzian. You need me," Ziva pointed to Elzian's broad chest. "I'm the best neurosurgeon in this country. I know anatomy, pharmacology, and toxicology better than anyone you're paying now. I can be your filter. Make sure not a single drop of poison gets into your mouth. I'll make sure you live until you can get revenge on them."

Elzian was silent, weighing the offer. The offer was logical. Very logical. All this time he had difficulty finding a medical confidant because his enemies always managed to infiltrate. But Ziva... Ziva had a clear motive: money and assets. Greedy people are usually more honest than people who pretend to be loyal.

"And what's the reward?" Elzian asked flatly.

"Be my shield," Ziva replied quickly. "Use your terrible power to keep my uncle and any loan sharks away from my life. Protect my assets. And when this is all over, we'll get divorced amicably."

"You're too confident, Doctor," Elzian scoffed. "But I accept. Be the watchdog of my food."

"Medical partner," Ziva corrected curtly. "I'm not a dog."

"Whatever. But remember one thing, Ziva. Once you betray me, or are caught working with my half-brother... your neck will really break. Without warning."

"Relax. I'm not interested in allying with murderers," Ziva replied casually. She yawned widely, not caring about etiquette in front of her husband. Today was exhausting. Her emotions were drained from dealing with a crazy uncle and a psychopath husband.

Ziva walked towards the king size bed that looked very soft in the middle of the room. The sheets were clean white silk, the pillows looked like clouds. She was already imagining how good it would feel to throw her back down there after standing in heels all day.

"Move," Ziva said, about to sit on the edge of the bed.

"What do you want?" Elzian's voice stopped her movement.

"Sleep. You think I want to stay up all night watching candles?"

"Who said you could sleep there?"

Ziva turned, confused. "This is our room, isn't it? That's a bed. Humans sleep in beds."

Elzian pointed to the long leather sofa in the corner of the room with his chin. His gaze returned to being cold and undeniable. "That's your place."

Ziva's eyes widened. She looked at the sofa, then back at the large bed that could fit five people. "Are you kidding? This bed is two square meters! We can sleep without touching each other at all. I don't snore and I don't sleep wildly!"

"I don't sleep with strangers. Especially those who know my secrets," Elzian replied firmly. He moved his wheelchair closer to the side of the bed, then easily moved his body onto the mattress, pulling the blanket up to his chest arrogantly. "Sleep on the sofa, or sleep on the floor outside the room. Your choice."

Ziva clenched her fists. She felt like throwing a flower vase at this arrogant man's head. She had just saved the man's life with her diagnosis, and this was the reward?

"Stingy," Ziva hissed annoyedly.

Stomping her feet, she grabbed a pillow from the sofa, threw it back roughly, then lay down there. The sofa was hard, cold, and short. Ziva's slender legs hung uncomfortably at the end.

"Turn off the lights," Elzian ordered without turning around.

"Turn it off yourself! You said your legs are strong!" Ziva snapped, turning her back to him.

There was silence for a moment. Then the sound of the switch clicking was heard and the room became pitch black. Ziva snorted in the darkness. An incredibly bad first night. But at least she was still alive.

However, in the midst of that silence, Elzian's voice was heard again, low and threatening in the darkness.

"Don't think about crawling onto my bed while I'm sleeping, Ziva. I sleep with a gun under my pillow."