I lay motionless in my hospital bed, pretending the morphine had fully pulled me under, when my husband bent close and whispered, “Once she’s gone, it all belongs to us.” His mistress let out a soft laugh. “I can’t wait.” My stomach twisted—until the nurse adjusting my IV suddenly froze. Her eyes snapped toward them. “She can hear everything you’re saying,” she said sharply. My husband’s face drained of color. Mine stayed still. Because in that moment, I understood exactly what was happening—and what I needed to do next.
I kept my eyelids heavy and my breathing shallow, playing the part of someone completely sedated. The room reeked of antiseptic and something colder—fear. Ethan Carter stood to my right, dressed impeccably, wearing the expression of a man rehearsing grief rather than feeling it. On my left was Sloane, the “coworker” he’d always dismissed as harmless—perfect hair, glossy lips, far too relaxed for a hospital room.
Ethan leaned down until his lips were near my ear.
“When she’s gone,” he murmured, “everything is ours.”
Sloane giggled, as if they were planning a weekend getaway.
I didn’t move. I let them believe I was already fading.
The nurse—Nora Patel, according to her badge—stopped mid-adjustment. Her gaze flicked from them to me.
“Patients can still be aware under sedation,” she said coolly. “You should be very careful about what you say.”
Ethan straightened too fast. “What?” he snapped.
Nora didn’t blink. “It happens more often than people think.”
Sloane’s smile cracked, then snapped back into place. “He’s just stressed,” she said sweetly, touching Ethan’s arm.
When the nurse stepped out, Ethan lowered his voice. “If you’re pretending, Ava, stop. You’re confused. You don’t understand what’s going on.”
Sloane leaned in, perfume thick in the air. “Rest,” she whispered. “You’ll feel better soon.”
Ethan turned away and pulled out his phone. “It’s almost done,” he said quietly. “The paperwork’s ready. Once she’s declared… we move.”
My heart slammed so hard I was sure the monitor would expose me. This wasn’t grief. It was a schedule.
He turned back, eyes cold. “If you love me, Ava,” he said softly, “you’ll let go.”
His hand slid under the blanket, gripping my wrist—not gently. Testing.
Then I felt it: pressure in the IV line, a subtle shift, the sting of something being pushed.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
Darkness rushed in—not sleep, but something heavier.
I fought it like drowning. Voices blurred, footsteps rushed. A sharp pinch cut through the fog as something cold flooded my vein. My eyes fluttered open just enough to see Nora storming in.
“What did you give her?” she demanded.
Ethan stepped back, all innocence. “She was in pain. I was helping.”
“You don’t touch a patient’s IV,” Nora said firmly. “Step away. Now.”
She leaned close to me. “Ava, if you can hear me, squeeze my fingers.”
I did—weak, barely there, but enough.
Nora didn’t hesitate. “Security. Room 412. Now.”
Ethan’s expression shifted—not fear, but calculation.
A doctor arrived and checked the chart. “This dosage isn’t ordered,” he said. “Run a tox screen. Lock her chart.”
Nora asked if there was someone I trusted.
One name burned through the fog. “Grace,” I whispered.
Ethan lunged forward. “You don’t need lawyers—”
Security blocked him.
Grace arrived minutes later, sharp and unflinching. “I’m her attorney,” she said. “What happened?”
As Nora explained, Grace’s expression hardened. Then she turned to Ethan.
“I suggest you stop talking.”
Her investigator revealed the truth Ethan never expected: I wasn’t just an heir. I was the trustee. If I died under suspicious circumstances, control passed to someone else—appointed long ago.
Ethan went pale.
The doctor confirmed the sedative. Security moved closer.
For the first time in years, fear gave way to something stronger—control.
“You were planning my death,” I said hoarsely.
Ethan tried to speak. Grace cut him off.
As they led him away, he looked back at me—furious, desperate.
I met his gaze. “You almost won,” I whispered.
Then added, “Almost.”