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.

In that moment, my hospital room stopped being just a place where I might die.

It became the battlefield where I might still win.

Evelyn arrived in under an hour, coat still on, hair pinned back like she’d run the last block. With her came a notary in a gray suit carrying a slim case, and—unexpectedly—my COO, Mateo Rios, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

Mateo hovered at the foot of my bed. “You’re awake,” he said, relief cracking his voice.

“Not for long,” I answered honestly. “So we move quickly.”

Turning the Hospital Room into a War Room

Evelyn drew the curtain and slipped into pure professional mode. “Tell me exactly what he said,” she instructed. “No edits. No summaries.”

I repeated it all. The “seventy-two hours.” The “all mine.” The promise that my sister wouldn’t see a single cent.

Mateo’s complexion went ashy. “Jesus,” he muttered.

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