The Perfect Wife He Manufactured Novel by Rely _ Novel




The Perfect Wife He Manufactured Chapter 01

For seven years, I stayed by Leandro Collard's side, playing the obedient stand-in for Frida Blaney, his beloved. Everyone in our social circle placed bets on how long it would take before he grew tired of me.
Blinded by love, I had thrown away all my self-respect.
When a devastating car accident threatened to end both his life and his career, I threw myself over him without hesitation. As a result, I was left permanently paralyzed from the waist down.
And he "repaid" me by personally having me committed to a high-security rehab center—all to make room for Frida, who'd returned from abroad.
He told me my love was abnormal and disgusting—that I was an unwanted burden he just couldn't shake.
Eventually, I became exactly what he wanted—a "normal person" completely hollowed out of all emotion.
Yet instead of feeling relieved, he knelt before my wheelchair with tear-filled eyes, begging me to look at him just one more time.
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"Number 09, someone is here to pick you up."
The heavy iron door scraped open with a harsh screech.
Out of pure reflex, I sprang up from the bed, pressed my hands together, and lowered my head.
"Sir, Number 09 is ready and awaiting instructions."
The figure in the doorway went rigid.
It was Leandro.
Wearing a sharply tailored custom suit, he looked entirely out of place in a hallway that reeked of mold and harsh disinfectant.
Frida Blaney—the woman he couldn't stop thinking about—wasn't trailing behind him.
"Marlene, drop the act," he said, his voice tinged with irritation.
The sharp click of his leather shoes echoed against the concrete floor as he walked toward me.
"I know you hate me for committing you, but your abnormal attachment to me made me feel suffocated."
I kept my head lowered, my gaze fixed on his polished shoes.
"Sir, Number 09 holds no hatred. Number 09 is fully cured."
My voice came out perfectly flat and even.
It was the only skill I'd picked up during my six months in the facility—total obedience.
Leandro frowned and reached out to grab my arm.
The second his fingertips brushed my sleeve, my entire body shook violently. A low, uncontrollable whimper escaped my throat.
It was a conditioned fear response left behind by the electroshock therapy.
The training ensured that any physical contact from a man triggered an immediate anticipation of pain.
Leandro's hand froze in midair, his expression unreadable.
"Are you done putting on this act?" He snapped, pulling his hand back.
"Frida's birthday dinner is tonight. You're my wife, so you have to attend.
"Don't embarrass me—especially with your condition."
His gaze dropped in disdain to my legs beneath the thin blanket—legs that had lost all function when I saved his life in that accident.
Now, they were nothing more than a source of shame to him.
I nodded obediently and forced a perfect smile. "Yes, Mr. Collard."
Not Leo. Not honey.
Just Mr. Collard.
The formal address clearly struck a nerve, and his frown deepened.
But I knew he'd ultimately be satisfied with it.
This was exactly what he'd asked for, after all—a "normal person" with no emotions, no jealousy, and no voice for her pain.

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