Chapter 1 - THE LEG THAT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HURT
No caretaker had lasted more than three days with me after the accident.
I made damn sure of it.
Then Faith Willis walked into my mansion wearing cheap boots, carrying an eviction notice in her pocket, and somehow decided I wasn't frightening enough to inconvenience her.
The first morning, I told her to leave.
She poured my coffee.
The second morning, I threw breakfast onto the floor.
She cleaned it.
Then my right leg moved.
Not gracefully.
Not usefully.
It jerked so hard that my foot struck the front of the wheelchair.
Pain exploded through my thigh.
Real pain.
For six months, my legs had been weight.
Objects attached to me that doctors touched, lifted, examined, and discussed.
Now fire tore from my hip to my knee.
I grabbed my thigh.
Another spasm hit.
Faith dropped the paper towels.
She moved fast.
Not toward the panic button.
Toward me.
“Breathe.”
“Don't touch me.”
“I am not moving your leg.”
Her hands stabilized my knee and ankle.
“Breathe.”
The pain intensified.
Sweat ran down my face.
“Faith—”
“Deep breath.”
I obeyed.
That made me angrier than the pain.
Thirty seconds later, the spasm eased.
I sagged against the chair.
Faith remained kneeling.
No pity.
No fear.
She simply assessed my face.
“Any chest pain?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
“New weakness in your arms?”
“No.”
Then she stood.
“I'll call your doctor.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“That wasn't a question.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
At the doorway stood Mrs. Gable, Carmine, and two security men.
Every one of them had seen Faith touch the leg everyone else had learned to treat like forbidden territory.
Carmine spoke first.
“Boss?”
“Get out.”
Nobody moved.
I raised my voice.
“Out.”
They disappeared.
Faith didn't.
“You too.”
“I need the dishes.”
I stared at the ruined rug.
“You're insane.”
“Probably.”
Then she picked up a broken piece of porcelain.
“Still not quitting.”
An hour later, Dr. Marcus Hale arrived.
He had supervised my recovery since the attack.
He tested reflexes.
Sensation.
Movement.
My right leg did nothing.
He leaned back.
“Spasticity.”
“What does that mean?”
“Common after spinal injury.”
“Does it mean anything changed?”
His answer came too quickly.
“No.”
Faith stood beside the window.
I noticed her expression.
“What?”
She looked at Dr. Hale.
“Nothing.”
“Faith.”
She sighed.
“I thought muscle spasms could sometimes happen even when somebody has an incomplete spinal injury.”
Hale's face hardened.
“You're a caretaker.”
“Yes.”
“Not a physician.”
“Yes.”
“So don't confuse him.”
Faith crossed her arms.
“I asked a question.”
“No,” Hale said. “You implied a prognosis.”
I looked between them.
“Did she?”
Silence.
Hale turned to me.
“Dominic, we've discussed this. Your spinal cord injury was classified as complete.”
“By whom?”
He frowned.
“By the hospital team.”
“Show me.”
Another pause.
“Show you what?”
“The report.”
Hale smiled carefully.
“Your records are extensive.”
“So find it.”
His expression changed.
Tiny.
Most people wouldn't notice.
I had spent twenty years surviving men who lied with their faces.
I noticed.
Faith did too.
That evening, I called Carmine.
“Get every medical record from the first six weeks after the attack.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
Then:
“Not through Hale.”
Carmine nodded.
“Outside firm?”
“Yes.”
Faith was leaving the room when I said:
“And find me an independent spinal specialist.”
She stopped.
Looked back.
Not smiling.
Good.
I didn't want encouragement.
I wanted truth.
She said:
“That's smarter.”
I stared.
“Be careful.”
“Or what?”
There it was again.
No fear.
I almost smiled.
“Go home, Faith.”
“I don't have one after Friday.”
The sentence landed harder than expected.
She picked up her bag.
Then:
“But I'll still be here tomorrow.”
After she left, I looked down at my right leg.
Nothing moved.
Still useless.
Still heavy.
But for thirty seconds that morning—
it had hurt.
May you like
And for the first time since the attack, I was afraid of something worse than never walking again.
I was afraid someone had convinced me to stop asking whether I could.
