Chapter 3

Caleb was a master of public perception. He told the world he was getting me the best care, but he was meticulously sabotaging it. He found a surgeon who was "an old family friend," a man whose incompetence was masked by a prestigious name. The specialist I needed, the one who could have saved the nerves in my hands, was suddenly "unavailable for months."

Every day was a new form of agony. The physical therapy was a brutal reminder of what I'd lost. My fingers, once capable of flying across a keyboard and designing intricate systems, were now stiff, clumsy things that refused to obey. The pain was constant, a grinding, deep ache that medication couldn't touch.

Caleb would watch me, his expression a careful blend of sorrow and encouragement.

"You're trying so hard, Gabby," he'd say, his voice gentle. "I'm so proud of you."

His words were poison. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was ensuring my permanent disability.

While I was trapped in this private hell, he was busy in the outside world. He leaked carefully selected details of the "kidnapping" to the tech blogs. The stories painted me as a tragic figure, a brilliant mind shattered by trauma. Anonymous sources, who sounded a lot like his PR team, questioned my ability to handle the pressures of a C-suite role.

"She's damaged goods," one influential blogger wrote. "Aura needs a steady hand, not a victim."

The narrative was set. I was no longer the "Shark of Silicon Valley." I was "Poor Gabby Johns."

The humiliation was a physical thing, a weight that pressed down on me day and night. I was aware of every lie, every manipulation, but I was powerless. My body was a prison, and he held the key. I had to endure it, had to play the part of the broken woman, because showing any strength would only make him more ruthless. I let the pain and the anger settle deep inside me, letting it harden into something cold and sharp. My mind was still my own, and in the long, silent nights, I began to plan.