Over 8 grueling months, the disease took the movement from his legs. It ended one morning when Richard woke and realized he could no longer rise from bed without help. He hired the best specialists in the United States. He sought experts around the world. He spent weeks in exclusive clinics in New York, traveled to facilities in London, and funded experimental treatments in Switzerland. He endured endless physical therapy.
Nothing changed.
His legs refused to answer the commands of his brain. The wealth that had always seemed powerful enough to solve any problem proved useless when it came to making his feet touch the ground with purpose again.
That was what shattered Richard Adams. It was not the wheelchair itself. It was not even the looks of pity from colleagues and strangers. It was the realization that there existed a kind of human suffering his money could not reach. For the 1st time in his life, his fortune failed him.
He withdrew from his closest friends, abandoned social life, and began to exist almost entirely within the sterile walls of the mirrored skyscraper, behaving as though the world beyond the glass had ceased to matter.
He lived that way until the morning in October when a young woman with wavy brown hair, a simple pink blouse, and a wooden box full of juice stepped into his path.
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