My brother kicked the brace holding my shattered spine together, shoved my wheelchair toward the deep end, and said, "Let’s see how long she can fake paralysis underwater."

Bradley kicked the lower edge of my spinal brace before I understood what he was doing.

The impact shot pain through my back.

Then I heard two metallic clicks.

My wheelchair brakes released.

“Let’s see how long you can fake paralysis underwater.”

My brother shoved hard.

The chair rolled across the wet stone patio toward the infinity pool while three executives from Vanguard Ridge Holdings stood beside the bar, too stunned to move.

My father, Richard, watched with a thin smile.

Seven months earlier, a highway crash had shattered three vertebrae in my lower spine. Dr. Harrison Sterling had spent nine hours rebuilding what he could. Since then, I had lived inside braces, rehabilitation centers, and sentences containing words like uncertain, incomplete, and possibly permanent.

Bradley preferred one word.

Fake.

I grabbed the right wheel with both hands. Rubber burned against my palm, but the wet patio gave me almost no traction.

Harrison rushed toward me.

My father stepped directly into his path and shoved one hand into his chest.

“Stay out of it,” Richard said. “She’s been performing for attention all year.”

Harrison’s white lifeguard shirt shifted during the struggle.

Beneath it, clipped against his ribs, was a small waterproof recorder with a blinking red light.

I recognized it.

He had been wearing it because the party included an adaptive-swimming demonstration for the spinal-rehabilitation foundation Vanguard Ridge sponsored after my accident. Harrison had obtained my permission to document my first pool transfer for training purposes.

Bradley had apparently forgotten that part.

My rear wheels crossed the coping.

The chair tipped backward.

Cold water swallowed me.

My brace dragged me down until Harrison knocked Richard’s arm aside, dove in, released the belt, and lifted me while keeping my spine rigid against his forearm.

When he pulled me onto the patio, Bradley was still laughing.

Then Harrison removed his sunglasses.

My brother’s face changed.

Harrison checked the locks on my brace with practiced hands.

“I rebuilt her spine,” he said. “And I recorded exactly what you just did to it.”

Bradley lunged for the recorder.

Harrison jerked it away.

I pointed at my brother.

“Tell them why my wheelchair was sabotaged before tonight.”

Nobody laughed then.

Harrison’s hand moved toward my left foot, where he had quietly tested sensation before the party.

My toes curled against the wet stone.