I opened my eyes to harsh fluorescent lights. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor echoed off the sterile white walls.
"You're awake," a nurse noted, checking the IV taped to my hand.
"How did I get here?" I rasped, my throat feeling like sandpaper.
"A gentleman brought you in. He carried you through the emergency doors, paid your bill in cash, and vanished before we could get a name."
Before I could ask what he looked like, the door swung open.
Colton marched in, flanked by two men in sharp gray suits. Opal trailed behind him, clutching a pink designer handbag.
"Good, you're conscious," Colton stated, stopping at the foot of my bed. "We have business to conclude."
"I almost died on the pavement last night," I pointed out.
"But you didn't," Opal chimed in, adjusting her diamond necklace.
One of the suited men pulled a thick stack of documents from his leather briefcase. "Mrs. Miller, I am Mr. Davis. We have revised the divorce settlement."
"Revised?" I pushed myself upright against the stiff pillows. "You already offered the suburban house and alimony."
"That offer is off the table," Davis replied, thrusting a silver pen toward me. "My client requires a full waiver of all marital assets. You leave with what you brought into the marriage. Nothing more."
I stared at Colton. "You're cutting me off completely? After seven years of wiping your face and feeding you through a tube?"
"Circumstances changed," Colton said, his jaw tight.
Opal stepped forward, sliding a folded paper from her purse. She smoothed it out on my tray table with perfectly manicured fingers.
"I'm pregnant," she announced.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I looked from the paper to Colton's proud, beaming face.
"Pregnant," I repeated.
A strange, hollow giggle escaped my lips. I couldn't stop it. I laughed until my monitor beeped faster, the sound shrill and frantic.
Colton frowned, clearly unnerved by my reaction. "It's not a joke, Sabrina. We are starting a family."
"You were in a coma until six months ago," I managed to say, wiping a tear of pure disbelief from my eye. "And she just got back to town."
"We didn't waste time," Opal purred, resting a protective hand on her perfectly flat stomach. "The doctor confirmed it this morning. Six weeks along."
"So you need the suburban house," I guessed, the manic humor draining from my system instantly.
"A baby needs a yard," Colton agreed. "And a safe neighborhood. You understand."
"I understand you're throwing me on the street so your mistress can play house in the home I picked out."
"Sign the papers, Sabrina," Colton demanded. "Or my lawyers will tie you up in court until your legal fees bankrupt you."
I grabbed the pen from Davis. I didn't read the clauses. I just signed my name on every yellow tab, pressing so hard the tip nearly tore the paper. I shoved the clipboard back at the lawyer.
"Get out," I whispered.
Colton and the suits turned and left without another word. Opal lingered, waiting until the heavy door clicked shut.
The moment we were alone, her hand dropped from her stomach.
"Six weeks?" I asked, watching her face closely. "You've only been back for four."
Opal's lips curled into a nasty smirk. "Math never was Colton's strong suit. A fake ultrasound costs fifty bucks on the internet."
"You're lying to him."
"I'm securing my future." She reached into her pink bag and pulled out a different piece of paper. It bore the St. Jude's Hospital logo.
"What is that?" I asked.
She held it up. My name sat at the top. It was the physical copy of my toxicology report.
"Dr. Evans is so careless," Opal mocked. "Leaving private files on his desk while he steps out to fetch coffee."
"Give that to me." I ripped the IV from my hand, ignoring the sharp sting, but my weak legs failed as I tried to stand.
Opal tore the report in half. Then into quarters. She let the shredded pieces flutter into the plastic biohazard bin near the door.
"No evidence, no poison," she whispered, her eyes flashing with pure malice. "Enjoy your failing heart, Sabrina."
She spun around and walked out, leaving me alone with the hum of the machines.
Two days later, I hauled my single suitcase up three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of old cabbage and cheap bleach. Apartment 4B. The rusty lock stuck, requiring a hard shove with my shoulder to yield.
Inside, peeling yellow wallpaper framed a single window overlooking a dark brick alley. A stained mattress lay on the floor.
I dropped my bag on the bare springs. My phone vibrated in my pocket.
A text message from my bank flashed across the cracked screen.
*Incoming Wire Transfer: $500,000.00. Sender: Anonymous.*
I blinked, rubbing my eyes to clear the exhaustion. Half a million dollars?
I unzipped the front pocket of my suitcase to find my charger. My fingers brushed against something stiff and unfamiliar.
I pulled it out. It was a thick, textured piece of cardstock. Jet black, with embossed silver lettering. No phone number. No company logo.
Just a single name.
*Benjamin.*
I flipped the card over. On the back, written in sharp, elegant ink, was a short message.
*You have six months to live. Let's make them regret it.*
I stared at the silver letters, my heart pounding a fragile, dangerous rhythm against my ribs. Who was Benjamin? And how did he know my secret?
