Chapter 6 - THE FIRST SMALL VICTORY
Dante's first rehabilitation session wasn't dramatic.
There were no miracles.
No sudden movement.
No emotional speech followed by a triumphant walk across the room.
He arrived in his wheelchair.
He looked angry.
He complained about the temperature.
The equipment.
The mirrors.
And the music playing softly in the background.
The physiotherapist, Camila Rocha, didn't seem impressed by his reputation.
She was forty, athletic, and had spent fifteen years working with neurological rehabilitation patients.
"Mr. Montenegro," she said, "you can complain as much as you like. But let's establish what you'd like to work toward."
Dante folded his arms.
"Walking."
Camila nodded.
"That's important to you."
"Obviously."
She smiled.
"Then we'll discuss that goal honestly. But we also need to work on skills that matter right now."
He frowned.
"Such as?"
"Safe transfers. Upper-body endurance. Wheelchair mobility. Sitting balance. Managing fatigue."
Dante looked away.
"I already know how to sit."
Camila raised an eyebrow.
"Then you won't mind demonstrating your current balance."
I covered my mouth.
Dante stared at her.
Then reluctantly agreed.
The session began.
Some activities were difficult.
Others revealed strengths he'd stopped noticing.
He was still physically powerful through his arms and shoulders.
He had good coordination.
His endurance had declined during months of inactivity, but not disappeared.
Camila adjusted the exercises to his ability.
She explained each movement.
Asked permission.
Stopped when necessary.
And reminded him that rehabilitation wasn't a competition with the person he'd been before the accident.
After forty minutes, Dante looked exhausted.
He wiped sweat from his forehead.
"This is ridiculous."
Camila smiled.
"Why?"
"I used to spend hours training."
"And today you worked hard for forty minutes."
He looked down.
She continued.
"That's information, not failure."
I watched him absorb the words.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then he nodded.
"Fine."
When the session ended, he looked toward me.
"How did I do?"
I smiled.
"You participated."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's your professional assessment?"
"Your physiotherapist will document the clinical findings."
He laughed.
"You're impossible."
"Frequently."
That evening, Dante surprised everyone by asking to eat dinner in the conservatory.
Augusto nearly dropped the serving tray.
"The conservatory, sir?"
Dante sighed.
"Yes, Augusto. The room with the plants."
"Of course."
I smiled.
The conservatory had large windows overlooking the garden.
Dante had avoided it for months because of the reflections.
Now he entered without hesitation.
He stopped near the glass.
Looked at his wheelchair.
Then looked toward the garden.
For a moment, I thought he might turn away.
Instead, he said quietly, "The roses need pruning."
Augusto's eyes filled.
"Yes, sir."
Dante nodded.
"Ask the gardener to handle them tomorrow."
Then he turned toward me.
"Marina."
"Yes?"
"Do you know anything about roses?"
"Only that they have excellent defense mechanisms."
He laughed.
A real laugh.
It filled the room.
Augusto covered his mouth.
For the first time in three months, the mansion sounded alive.
But the following morning, the good mood disappeared.
Dante received a letter from the board of Montenegro Holdings.
It requested a formal review of his capacity to continue serving as executive chairman.
The letter was signed by Rafael Montenegro.
And attached to it was a medical summary containing information Dante had never authorized the board to receive.
His face went white.
Then he looked at me.
"Marina."
I stopped.
"What?"
"Someone has been sharing my medical information."
I felt cold.
The rehabilitation records.
The medication discrepancies.
The meetings with Rafael.
May you like
For the first time, I wondered whether Dante's recovery had become part of a much larger struggle for control.
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