Six months after a bullet paralyzed me, my fiancée canceled my therapy, sneering, “Helping him is pointless now.” She spent our money on wedding dresses while demanding my signature on our harbor properties. But my $25-an-hour nurse refused to let me rot. She rebooked my session and secretly placed a folded document on my hospital bed: “Mr. Corvino… your fiancée doesn’t want you to walk again.” Reading Arya’s signature at the bottom, I realized the bullet wasn’t an accident—it was an inside job Kertati

A moment later, the front door boomed shut.

“Tessa,” I said, not turning around.

“Yes, Mr. Corvino?”

“Call Lucia. Tell her to activate the second motion.”

“And the dress fitting?” she asked.

I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. 7:15 PM. “Arya will be home within the hour. She’ll want to confirm I’m sufficiently docile for tomorrow’s court performance.”

I reached down, grasped my paralyzed thighs with my hands, and manually shifted my legs over the edge of the mattress. “Get the braces.”

At eight-thirty, the front doors opened once more.

Arya entered the house with a light, triumphant hum, carrying a garment bag from a high-end bridal boutique downtown. She hung the bag from the mahogany coat tree in the foyer, smoothed her silk blouse, and walked toward the east drawing room.

She expected to find me in bed, drugged with muscle relaxants, staring at the darkened garden through the double panes.

Instead, the drawing room was empty.

The door to the grand library across the hall stood open, illuminated only by the warm amber glow of a roaring fireplace.

Arya stepped across the threshold, her brow furrowing in mild irritation. “Vincent? Why are you in here? The drafts in this room are terrible for your—”