I faked being paralyzed from the crash, remaining quiet in my wheelchair as I watched my future wife mock me before the crowd. “Look at you,” she scoffed, bending near my ear.

The cathedral was packed. The air was thick with the scent of white roses and expensive perfume. I sat in my wheelchair at the altar, looking like a defeated, broken king.

The organ swelled. Eleanor marched down the aisle, radiant in a custom diamond-encrusted gown. Julian stood to my right as my best man. Uncle Richard sat in the front row, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Eleanor reached the altar, looking down at me with a microscopic sneer before turning a glowing, angelic smile toward the crowd and the cameras.

The priest began the ceremony. He droned on about loyalty, about standing by each other in sickness and in health. The hypocrisy was so thick you could choke on it.

"If anyone objects to this union," the priest intoned, the standard, ceremonial question, "speak now, or forever hold your peace."

The room was silent.

I reached down to the wheels of my chair.

"I object," I said. My voice wasn't raspy. It wasn't weak. It boomed through the cathedral, amplified by the acoustics.

Eleanor froze. Julian blinked, stepping back.

I planted my feet on the marble floor. A collective gasp sucked the oxygen out of the room as I stood up. I didn't stumble. I didn't shake. I stood at my full six-foot-two height, towering over Eleanor.