They laughed at the paralyzed billionaire in his wheelchair, completely unaware that his legs worked fine—and he was taking notes on every single one of them.

Two days after the gala, the executive board of Sterling Global convened an emergency session on the 42nd floor of the corporate tower.

I was rolled into the room by Harrison. My neck rested against a soft head support, my posture slouched just enough to simulate severe muscular spinal trauma.

Uncle Martin sat at the head of the long obsidian conference table, flanked by Daniel and four senior board members who held sizable institutional blocks.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Uncle Martin began, clasping his hands with solemn theatricality. "And thank you, Julian, for making the brave effort to join us in your... current condition."

"I am here to oversee the quarterly asset review," I mumbled, deliberately slurring my words slightly, keeping my eyelids heavy.

Daniel cleared his throat, avoiding my direction. "Julian, we all admire your resilience. But the market demands stability. Sterling Global’s stock has dropped nine percent since your accident. The public perceives us as leaderless."

"Which brings us to Motion 4B," Uncle Martin interrupted, sliding a thick legal document down the table. "A temporary transfer of executive CEO voting authority to an interim committee—headed by myself and Daniel—until such time as Julian undergoes comprehensive cognitive and physical rehabilitation."

Marcus Thorne, sitting at my side as corporate counsel, immediately interjected. "My client retains full mental capacity. A physical limitation does not disqualify him under Section 12 of the corporate bylaws."

"Doesn't it?" Daniel countered sharply, pulling up a tablet display. "Here is a video from two nights ago at the manor. Julian unable to respond, unable to manage basic domestic interactions, showing clear signs of neurological trauma and emotional withdrawal. He is unfit to lead a Fortune 500 company."

I watched Daniel through my eyelashes. He had recorded me during Vanessa's verbal attack, weaponizing my staged silence against me.

"Give me... one month," I whispered, faking a breathy rasp. "To prove... stability."

Uncle Martin chuckled condescendingly. "Julian, nephew, don't make this painful. Sign the temporary proxy, or we vote on an immediate medical removal board by noon tomorrow."

I let a long, heavy silence fill the room. The board members shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with the blunt cruelty, yet greedy for the stock stabilization Martin promised.