flash
The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch. / Chapter 18 / 20

Chapter 18 - Rebuilding the Foundation

Spring gave way to a blazing Chicago summer. The rehabilitation sessions in the estate’s private gym went from tentative steps with a cane to unassisted, heavy-legged walks across the rubberized mat.

My physical therapist—a rugged former Navy medic who didn't flinch when I swore at him—watched in amazement as I planted my left foot, shifted my weight, and took three consecutive steps without support.

"The nerve regeneration is beating every medical projection, Mr. Vance," the therapist said, checking his clipboard. "Your sheer stubbornness is rewriting textbook neurology."

"Stubbornness is just a polite word for survival," I panted, sweat dripping from my brow as I gripped the parallel bars.

When I finally limped into the master study later that afternoon, leaning slightly on my cane, Emma was reviewing shipping manifests at the desk. She looked up, her pen dropping from her fingers as she stared at me standing completely on my own two feet, crossing the threshold of the room without wheels.

She didn't cry. She didn't hesitate. She stood up so fast her chair tipped backward, crashing against the Persian rug, and crossed the room in three strides, throwing her arms around my neck with a force that nearly knocked us both over.

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