I pretended the accident had broken my bones, so I sat silently in my wheelchair and watched my fiancée laugh mockingly in front of everyone.

The gala lasted for another three agonizing hours. I remained in the center of the room, a silent monument to my own supposed tragedy, watching the vultures circle.

Chloe didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. She floated through the ballroom, playing the role of the brave, tragic bride-to-be. She accepted sympathetic pats on the shoulder and whispered condolences while sipping vintage champagne paid for by my company.

I saw my uncle Robert slip into my private study with my best friend, Marcus. I saw the calculating looks the board members shot my way. They were already dividing my empire in their minds.

When the last guest finally left, Elena, the housekeeper, stepped quietly into the grand hall.

“Mr. Sterling, would you like me to wheel you to your quarters?” she asked, her eyes carefully avoiding the pity that everyone else wore so cheaply.

“Yes, Elena. Thank you,” I said, letting my voice sound weak.

She wheeled me down the long, shadowed corridors to the master wing. As she helped me transfer to the bed—a maneuver I could easily do myself, but forced myself to fake—she fluffed the pillows and poured a glass of water for my nightstand.

“You shouldn't listen to her, sir,” Elena said softly, pausing by the door. “Miss Chloe… she doesn't understand your strength.”

“And you do, Elena?” I asked, studying her.

“I know that a man who built a global logistics company from nothing doesn't break just because his legs won't work,” she replied with quiet dignity. “Goodnight, Mr. Sterling.”

When the door clicked shut, the illusion vanished.

I threw off the covers, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. My muscles ached from sitting still for hours, but my spine was perfectly straight, my nerves completely whole.

I walked over to the hidden panel behind my bookshelf and pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner. The panel slid open, revealing a wall of monitors. Every room in the estate was wired.

I pulled up the footage from my private study during the gala. There were Robert and Marcus, pouring my scotch.

“The proxy clause kicks in at the end of the month,” Robert was saying on the screen, swirling his glass. “Once the medical board declares him unfit, the CEO position is mine. You’ll get the CFO slot, Marcus, just like we agreed.”

Marcus smirked. “And Chloe? She still wants her cut.”