THREE DAYS BEFORE I “DIED,” MY HUSBAND LEANED IN AND WHISPERED A COUNTDOWN TO MY DEATH — AND TO HIS INHERITANCE. HE THOUGHT I WAS SEDATED. HE THOUGHT I COULDN’T HEAR. HE WAS WRONG.

“Finally,” he breathed. “Just seventy-two more hours. Your company… your money… everything will be mine.”

He genuinely believed the sedation had taken me out of the conversation. That the IV drip had turned me into a ghost—eyes shut, jaw slack, a woman he could speak freely around because I no longer counted.

But I was still there.

The monitors kept up their mechanical heartbeat. The room reeked of antiseptic layered with the fading scent of lilies from “concerned friends.” Brandon’s expensive cologne clung to the air like something out of place. He stroked my knuckles as if he were the devoted husband, then leaned closer and dropped his voice again.

“I’ve done my part,” he muttered. “Signed what they needed. Smiled for the board. Once you’re gone, I’m not sharing a cent with your sister. Not one.”

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