Daniel. My Daniel. The little boy I raised alone after his father died. The child whose tuition I paid by selling my wedding ring and working endless double shifts. The man who now stood quietly while his wife discussed me like broken furniture.
Then Vanessa said the sentence that changed everything.
“Besides, once she’s gone, the foundation money comes through us. No more charity circus. We sell the properties, empty the accounts, and disappear before her lawyer notices the smoke.”
The surgeon lowered his voice. “This conversation is inappropriate.”
“It’s practical,” Vanessa snapped coldly. “Do you want your hospital wing funded or not?”
There it was.
The blade hidden beneath her perfume.
I built that wing.
Not Vanessa. Not Daniel. Me.
I wanted to scream, but a tube sealed my mouth shut. I wanted to move, but my body belonged to the drugs.
