A paralyzed billionaire secretly wiggled his toes, only to discover fourteen months of physical therapy had been sabotaged by someone in the bedroom across the hall.

Maxwell took a step.

His right foot lifted out of the tub, breaking the surface of the water, and planted heavily onto the wet marble floor tiles. The impact was loud, solid, and unmistakable.

SLAP.

He shifted his weight, his left leg following, stepping clear of the tub’s edge. He stood fully on the bathroom floor, towering over his younger brother, the steam curling off his damp skin like a war banner.

Julian backed up until his spine hit the doorframe, his hands raised in front of his chest in an involuntary gesture of surrender.

"Max, please... listen to me!" Julian cried out, his aristocratic composure completely shattered. "It wasn't my idea! It was the board! The European consortium was going to initiate a hostile takeover the week after your accident! If they knew you were healthy, they would have forced a liquidation! I had to maintain control—I had to protect the family name!"

"You protected yourself," Maxwell said, taking another heavy, measured step forward. His stride was stiff, his balance raw, but his forward momentum was unstoppable. "You wanted the corner office. You wanted the private jet. You wanted to sit in the seat father built, but you were always too soft to take it from me when I was standing."

"I was going to let you recover!" Julian lied frantically, tears of sheer panic welling in his eyes. "Next year! Once the merger was finalized and the stock was locked! I was going to bring in specialists from Switzerland! I swear to God, Max, I was going to find a cure!"

"You were going to let me rot," Maxwell said, stopping two feet from Julian’s chest.

The physical contrast between the two brothers was overwhelming. Julian, slender and immaculate in his luxury knitwear, cowered against the doorframe, while Maxwell, half-naked, wet, and covered in battle ink, looked like an ancient warlord who had broken out of a dungeon.

Maxwell reached out his right hand.

His large, calloused fingers clamped onto the front of Julian’s charcoal cashmere sweater, twisting the fine fabric into a tight knot against his brother's throat. With a single, explosive jerk of his arm, Maxwell lifted Julian an inch off the floor, pinning him hard against the doorjamb.

The porcelain tea cup on the vanity rattled and fell, shattering against the wet marble floor. Dark tea and yellow capsules scattered into the puddle of bathwater.

"Did you push me?" Maxwell whispered, his face inches from Julian’s nose.

The air in the room went freezing cold.

Martha gasped from the corner of the room, her hand pressed against her throat.

"What?" Julian wheezed, his eyes bulging as the fabric choked off his breath.

"The terrace," Maxwell said, his voice dropping into a register of deadly, murderous intent. "Fourteen months ago. The rainstorm. The loose flagstone on the west balustrade. Did you grease the stone, Julian? Or did you put something in my drink before I walked out there?"

Julian’s face turned purple, his hands clawing uselessly at Maxwell’s iron wrist. "No! I swear! That was an accident! I swear on mother’s grave, Max! You slipped! You slipped on the wet moss!"

Maxwell studied his brother's terrified eyes for five agonizing seconds, reading the micro-expressions of guilt, terror, and cowardice. He saw the truth: Julian was a thief, an opportunist, and a traitor—but he hadn't possessed the raw, physical courage to commit murder with his own hands. He had merely seized the opportunity when his brother fell, turning an injury into an indefinite prison sentence.