“Soon, everything you own will be mine.”
What he failed to understand was that inside the heart of the woman he believed to be weak and compliant, a plan was already taking shape, careful, precise, and calculated down to the smallest detail.
When I slowly opened my eyes, the hospital room felt distant and strangely unreal, as if I were observing it from somewhere far away while my body remained trapped beneath layers of pain and exhaustion.
The steady rhythm of the monitors echoed through the silence, and faint voices drifted in from the hallway, speaking in tones that tried to remain professional but could not fully hide concern.
“Her condition is worsening, the liver failure is progressing faster than expected, and she may have no more than three days at most,” one voice said quietly.
The second voice was one I would recognize anywhere, even through the haze of medication and weakness.
It was my husband, Benjamin Cole.
My chest tightened instantly, but I forced myself to remain still, barely opening my eyes enough to let a sliver of light through.
The door opened softly, and I heard his familiar footsteps approach my bed with measured calm.
He carried a bouquet of white lilies, flowers I had always disliked, yet he never bothered to remember that detail about me.
He sat beside me and took my hand, brushing his fingers along my wrist as if checking my pulse, though I knew it was only a gesture meant to complete his performance.
