Chapter 1 - The First FractureMy thumb traced Arya’s elegant signature across the crisp, expensive paper. It was a prenuptial amendment—not just dividing assets, but formally establishing that in the event of my permanent "incapacitation," all voting shares of Corvino Holdings, our shipping infrastructure, and our real estate empire would immediately transfer to sole trusteeship under Dominic Vance, my cousin, and Arya herself.
Dated two weeks ago. Long before the doctors had even finalized my rehabilitation prognosis.
"She didn't just give up on you," Tessa whispered, her hand resting steady on the edge of my wheelchair. "She engineered a hostile takeover while you were still learning how to sit upright."
The silence in the room suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. Six months ago, men would have bled in this exact room if I gave a single nod. Now, my own fiancée had traded my life for a corporate portfolio, outsourcing my slow execution to a bedroom overlooking a garden I couldn't walk through.
"Dominic," I muttered, the name tasting like rust and ash on my tongue. Dominic, who used to tremble when I raised my voice at family dinners. Dominic, who suddenly found the courage to wear custom Italian suits and sit in my leather chair downstairs.
"Your cousin has been visiting the estate every Tuesday and Thursday," Tessa said, her voice dropping lower. "Right after Arya leaves for her 'dress fittings.' They don't meet in the parlor. They use the study. And yesterday, I heard enough through the service door to know they aren't planning a wedding. They're planning an institution."
My chest tightened, a familiar, furious heat flaring behind my ribs. The T12 fracture had robbed me of my legs, but it hadn't touched my brain. It hadn't touched the network of loyalists I had spent fifteen years building across the docks.
"Help me into the suit jacket on the hook," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze water.
Tessa stared at me, her eyes widening. "Mr. Corvino, your therapist is due in twenty minutes, and your blood pressure has been erratic all morning—"
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"Tessa," I cut her off, locking my gaze onto hers. "Do you want to keep making twenty-five dollars an hour washing the back of a ghost, or do you want to help me take back my empire?"
She didn't blink. The exhaustion in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating spark. Without a word, she reached for the tailored charcoal jacket.
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