Chapter 9
Six months later, the fortress on the North Side didn't feel like a grave anymore.
The heavy blackout drapes were permanently pulled back, letting the brilliant Chicago sunshine flood through the tall windows. The estate buzzed with life—not the fearful silence of servants walking on eggshells, but the genuine warmth of a home being rebuilt from the ashes.
On a crisp Saturday afternoon, the sprawling courtyard was filled with laughter. Emma’s mother, fully recovered and smiling brightly, sat in the garden pavilion alongside Rosa, watching a golden retriever chase a tennis ball across the manicured lawn.
Inside the study, I stood up from my wheelchair—utilizing the heavy parallel rehabilitation bars that Luke had secretly installed last month—pushing my legs to support my weight for the first time in over two years. My muscles burned, sweat beaded on my forehead, but I didn't stop.
Emma stood right in front of me, holding my hands, her eyes bright with unshed tears of pride.
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“Careful,” she teased gently, though her grip on my hands was ironclad. “Don’t go breaking records on your first day back on your feet.”
“I told you,” I murmured, leaning forward until our foreheads rested together, a triumphant smile breaking across my face. “I don't break. Not anymore.”
