“Don’t touch her.” The command came from a man everyone in the mansion believed could no longer move anything below his waist.

At 1:00 in the morning, the Moretti estate was dead silent.

Outside, a howling blizzard wrapped the mansion in a thick blanket of snow, cutting off visibility and muffling all sound. The guards on perimeter duty were huddled near the heat lamps at the main gates, eager to stay out of the freezing wind.

Inside the master bedroom, the heavy blackout curtains were drawn shut. A single dim lamp illuminated the room.

Adrien sat on the edge of his king-sized bed, wearing black sweatpants and a soaked grey t-shirt.

Clare stood directly in front of him, her feet braced shoulder-width apart, holding a heavy leather belt looped securely around his waist.

"On three," Clare whispered, her voice tight with concentration. "Remember to focus on your glutes and core, not just your knees. You have to force the brain signal through."

"I know how to stand, Bennett," Adrien growled through gritted teeth, though his hands were trembling as he gripped her shoulders for support.

"Then show me," she challenged gently. "One... two... three!"

Adrien heaved his body upward.

His knees wobbled violently. His left leg threatened to buckle completely beneath his weight. A sharp, burning agony shot down his spine like liquid fire as his sleeping nerves fought against months of chemical suppression.

He gasped, his fingers digging deeply into the fabric of Clare’s uniform.

For two terrifying seconds, he hovered in mid-air—neither sitting nor standing—his body shaking uncontrollably.

"I’ve got you," Clare gritted out, her own legs straining as she held the belt tight, absorbing his heavy weight against her chest. "Don't fall. Look at me, Adrien. Look at my eyes!"

Adrien locked his gaze onto hers.

In her bright, fierce brown eyes, he saw no pity. He saw no fear. He saw only an unyielding belief in his strength.

With a deep, gut-wrenching roar, Adrien straightened his hips.

His knees locked into place.

He was standing.

He was six-foot-two, towering over her, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged gasps. For the first time in three hundred and thirty days, Adrien Moretti was standing on his own two feet.

Tears welled in Clare’s eyes, though she kept her grip firm on the belt. "You're standing," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You're doing it."

"It feels... like walking on broken glass," Adrien grunted, his jaw tight. "My feet are completely numb."

"That's sensory re-adaptation," Clare explained quickly. "Your brain is processing the weight load. Hold it for ten seconds. Ten... nine... eight..."

Adrien held on, his hands resting on her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck, the soft rise and fall of her chest against his. In the middle of the agony, he was intensely, overwhelmingly aware of how close she was to him.

Seven... six... five...

Suddenly, heavy footfalls sounded in the hallway outside.

The sharp click of leather shoes on hardwood was unmistakable. It was Vincent, making his midnight rounds.

"Down!" Clare whispered in a panic.

Adrien collapsed backward onto the mattress just as the doorknob began to turn.

Clare reacted with lightning speed. She kicked his wheelchair toward the bedside, threw the heavy blanket over his legs, grabbed a feather duster from her apron pocket, and began rapidly wiping down the headboard.

The door swung open.

Vincent stood in the doorway, wearing an expensive silk robe, holding a glass of scotch. His sharp eyes scanned the room, landing first on Adrien lying in bed, then on Clare dusting the furniture.

"What are you doing in here at this hour?" Vincent asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.

Clare turned around slowly, lowering her head in a posture of dutiful humility. "Mr. Moretti requested extra blankets because of the storm, sir. I was just finishing up."

Vincent stepped into the room, his boots clicking on the floor. He walked over to the bed, looking down at Adrien.

Adrien lay there, his breathing still heavy from exertion, his forehead dripping with sweat. He forced his body to relax, pretending to be weak and exhausted.

"You look terrible, cousin," Vincent said with a cruel, mocking smile. "Feverish. Perhaps Dr. Reeves should increase your sedation dosage tomorrow morning."

"I don't need... more medication," Adrien rasped, putting on a show of slurred, feeble speech.

Vincent chuckled, taking a sip of his scotch. He looked at Clare. "You. Leave us. And don't come back up here tonight."

"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Clare murmured. She grabbed her cleaning supplies and walked quickly out of the room, not daring to make eye contact with Adrien.

Once the door closed, Vincent leaned down close to Adrien’s face.

"Enjoy the bed while you can, cousin," Vincent whispered, his voice dark and malicious. "Tomorrow night, at the council meeting, I take the crown. And once I'm Don, your little maid will be the first person I remove from this house."