It was two in the morning. I was alone in my study, reviewing shipping manifests, when it hit. Phantom agony—a cruel, biological joke where the brain screams in terror over limbs that no longer receive signals—ripped through my lower spine. It wasn’t a dull ache; it felt as though someone had driven jagged, rusted spikes through my kneecaps and set my nerves alight with battery acid.
The pain was so violent, so sudden, that I let out a choked, guttural gasp and doubled over in my wheelchair. The heavy ledger slipped from my lap, crashing to the floor. My fingers clawed into my useless thighs, my knuckles turning bone-white as sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was no longer a feared boss; I was just a broken, suffering animal trapped in a metal chair.
Footsteps echoed softly from the corridor. The study door creaked wider, and there stood Emma, holding a feather duster. She froze, taking in the sight of me gasping for air, my face twisted in sheer agony.
My pride, wounded and bleeding, instantly went on the offensive. “Get out!” I hissed, my voice trembling with the effort it took to speak. “Get the hell out of here!”
She didn’t run. She didn’t call for the armed guards stationed outside. She calmly set the duster down on a side table and walked directly toward me, her rubber-soled shoes silent on the Persian rug.
“Where are your pills?” she asked, her tone steady, infuriatingly clinical.
“I said leave!” I roared, but it sounded more like a plea. A fresh wave of molten pain rolled down my invisible legs, and I squeezed my eyes shut, my forehead resting almost against my knees.
“Left drawer or right?” she demanded, stepping uncomfortably close into my personal space.
“Right,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
I heard the slide of the drawer, the rattle of the amber plastic bottle. A moment later, a cold glass of water was pressed against the back of my trembling hand, and a single white pill was deposited onto my palm.
