The door slammed shut again, and Adrian's hurried footsteps faded away.
The vast house fell deathly silent.
I sat quietly in my wheelchair without shedding a single tear.
For 10 years, I'd lived with a crushing weight on my chest. Now, at last, it was gone.
I took out my phone and calmly called the car service I'd arranged for the airport.
"Meet me at the intersection up ahead in 30 minutes."
The so-called nerve-block procedure had been a cover from the beginning.
What I had actually booked was a flight to Bellhaven, Veldoria.
I was going there for a bilateral above-knee amputation and to be fitted with the most advanced bionic prosthetic legs available.
I didn't open the closet or touch the safe filled with expensive jewelry.
I didn't take a single thing Adrian had bought me.
A
