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.

And Brandon had just revealed what he intended to do in the space between those two realities.

My fingers trembled as I reached toward the bedside table for my phone. Technically, it wasn’t supposed to be within reach—Brandon liked to control which devices stayed in the room. But that morning, my night nurse had quietly set it down next to me when his back was turned.

I didn’t dial my sister.

I didn’t call my best friend.

I called the one person Brandon would never imagine I could still put into motion from a hospital bed:

Evelyn Park. Outside counsel to my company. A woman who approached the law like a chessboard and treated husbands as risk factors.

Calling in the Lawyer

She picked up on the second ring. “Sloane?” she said, sharp and startled. “Is that really you?”

I swallowed against the ache in my chest. “Evelyn,” I whispered. “I need you in my room. Immediately. And bring a notary.”

There was a brief pause, and then her voice dropped into that controlled, icy register I’d heard in boardrooms.

“What happened?”

I watched the door like it might swing open at any second.

“My husband,” I said softly. “He just announced he’s my heir… out loud.”

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