Chapter 13: The Custom Frame

The gray light of early dawn was just beginning to bleed through the tall windows of the master bedroom when Julian woke me with a quiet, persistent tap of his knuckles against the wooden side table. I sat up on the makeshift cot I had dragged into his room three nights ago, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and pushing my messy bun back from my forehead.

"Get up," he said, his voice low and steady. "We have work to do."

I blinked against the dim light, throwing off the blanket. "It's five-thirty, Julian. If this is about breakfast, the kitchen isn't even warm yet."

"It's not about breakfast," he replied, pointing a finger toward the far corner of the massive bedroom where a large, strange apparatus sat draped in a heavy canvas sheet. "Take the cover off."

Frowning with sleep-induced confusion, I walked across the polished wood flooring and grabbed the edge of the canvas, pulling it down with a sharp tug. Beneath it stood a custom-engineered mechanical standing frame—a robust steel structure with adjustable knee supports, a padded chest harness, and heavy-duty locking casters, built to medical-grade specifications with a sleek, matte-black finish that matched his wheelchair.

I turned back to look at him, my breath catching in my throat. "Julian... where did this come from?"

"My engineers finished it late last night," he said, his expression deadpan, though his eyes gave away the underlying tension that gripped him. "The legal battle proved I can't hide behind this chair forever. If I'm going to run my estate, and if I'm going to keep you from working yourself to death at six in the morning, I need to stand up."

May you like

The Leather-Bound Menu Folder With a Gold Seal...

The warmth of the crystal chandeliers felt heavy against the back of my neck, casting long, wavering shadows across the polished s...

The Ten Seconds Behind The White Belt Tied Securely Around My Gi...

The fluorescent overhead lights of the dojo hummed a steady, high-pitched note that blended with the damp smell of disinfectant, r...

THE GHOST IN THE WHEELCHAIR

The screen of the cracked smartphone buzzed in Vincent’s palm like a live wire.On the four-inch display, bathed in the soft glow o...

I walked slowly back to his chair, looking from the steel frame to his determined face. The fear was there—raw, unspoken, and entirely justified after two years of paralysis—but alongside it was an unyielding stubbornness that matched my own.

"All right," I said, a slow smile breaking across my face as I reached for the locking mechanisms on his wheelchair. "Let's see what you're made of, Sterling."