The knife bit into my cheek before I even saw the hand. \n\nI stumbled back against the church wall, veil torn, bouquet crushed underfoot. 'Dad… please,' I begged, but his eyes were cold. My brother twisted my arm behind me. 'You don’t walk away from this family, Sarah,' he spat. The surgeon who was supposed to operate tomorrow—my last chance at walking again—was already gone, paid to disappear. \n\nThen the gunshot cracked the air. \n\nThey dropped like puppets with cut strings. From the alley stepped him—trench coat flaring, smoke rising from the pistol in his grip. He didn’t look at them. Just at me. 'Can you stand?' he asked. I tried. Failed. He knelt, lifted me like I weighed nothing. 'Then I’ll carry you until you can.' \n\nNow, ten years later, I own the building they died in. And their calls go straight to voicemail.