The grand estate of the Caldwell family loomed like a monument to wealth at the edge of the city. Gleaming marble floors reflected chandeliers that hung like crystal waterfalls, and every corner of the house seemed to carry the quiet hum of money. Yet, for all its elegance, there was one room where the atmosphere was perpetually heavy: the private suite of young Daniel Caldwell.
Daniel had once been the embodiment of joy. At 12, he was a whirlwind of laughter, energy, and curiosity. But a t.r.a.g.i.c car a.c.c.i.d.e.n.t six months earlier had left him paralyzed from the waist down. Since then, the boy’s once-bright eyes had dimmed, and his smile had become a rare treasure. He hardly left his wheelchair, rarely spoke unless spoken to, and often stared at the window as if searching for a piece of himself that had been left behind on that road.
His father, Richard Caldwell, was a man accustomed to control. As one of the city’s most powerful billionaires, Richard could bend industries to his will. He was a figure who inspired fear and admiration in equal measure, but when it came to his son, he was utterly powerless.
