Victor kept his hand planted firmly on the metal bed rail. He refused to answer the question. Instead, he reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and dropped it directly onto the center of my chest.
"Sign this," he ordered. "The PR team needs to release a statement before the morning bell."
I picked up the document with my good hand. The text had been typed and formatted on company letterhead.
Passenger Isabella Reyes initiated unauthorized contact with the central console during evasive maneuvers, interfering with system logic.
"I panicked and touched the console?" I asked, staring at the black ink. "My right arm was crushed beneath the interior sample box throughout the crash."
"The media needs a story they can digest." Victor pulled a silver pen from his pocket and popped the cap. "Once the IPO clears, we will spend a month in Europe. Just the two of us. You need the rest anyway."
I studied the pen, then pushed the cap down until it snapped shut. I slid the paper back across the blanket.
"No."
A sharp chime echoed from the wall monitor. The hospital interface refreshed. A bright yellow banner flashed across my digital chart.
Patient Observation Extended: VelaDrive Legal Request. Suspected Post-Traumatic Cognitive Impairment.
My stomach dropped. "You are locking me in here."
"Head injuries are tricky, Isa," he said, his tone perfectly even. "I am being a responsible husband."
Priya stepped closer to the bed, tapping her diagnostic tablet.
"It is more than a medical hold," Priya said. "I pulled the legal attachments Victor submitted to the hospital network."
She turned the screen toward me. A six-week-old document filled the display.
"Incapacitation succession authorization," Priya read aloud. "If you remain hospitalized for more than seventy-two hours, your fifteen percent voting rights automatically transfer to the CEO."
I glanced at the digital clock on the wall. Forty-eight hours and twenty minutes had passed since the MacArthur Causeway crash.
"I never signed that," I stated.
"It uses your health system biometric signature," Priya noted.
I looked at Victor. "You had me scan my thumb for the new insurance portal last month."
My left fingers brushed the edge of the cobalt-blue folder hidden under my blanket. Eight years ago, Victor had stood in our cramped apartment, writing out my fifteen percent non-dilutable voting share right next to my cashier check. Nobody overrules you, he had promised.
Now, my own medical chart labeled me incompetent.
A hospital volunteer pushed through the door, carrying an enormous vase of white roses.
"Delivery for the room," the volunteer chirped, setting the vase on the bedside table. "There is a card."
Victor adjusted his cuffs. "I wanted to brighten the room. Read the note."
I pulled the small envelope from the plastic fork. For our future, please trust me.
Then I looked at the florist printed delivery sticker stuck to the side of the vase.
Recipient: Camila Torres.
"Office mix-up," Victor said quickly. "My assistant must have ordered them in bulk."
I laughed. A short, dry sound that scraped my bruised ribs. I wedged my thumbnail under the sticker, peeled it off in one perfect piece, and pressed it onto the screen of my dead phone.
Priya dropped a thick, transparent evidence bag onto the rolling tray. My crushed sample box sat inside, its leather corners stained dark red from my torn knuckles.
"I finished inventorying the cabin debris," Priya said. She unzipped the bag and reached into the hidden lining of the box.
She pulled out a pale gold access card. The initials C.T. were engraved in the corner.
"Level One Executive Override," Priya announced. "This grants direct entry to the Protected Occupant backend."
Victor stepped forward, his polished shoes scuffing the linoleum. "Camila borrowed the sample box to check fabric swatches before the launch. She must have dropped her card."
"The box was locked in my design studio all week," I said. "You were the only one who touched it. You carried it to the car ten minutes before I came downstairs."
Victor tightened his jaw. The gentle, concerned husband routine vanished.
"Priya, wait outside," I ordered.
"She stays," Victor countered.
"Get out, Victor," I said, pointing at the door. "And Priya, revoke his status as my medical proxy. He does not get to see my charts anymore."
Victor leaned over the bed. The scent of his expensive cologne made my stomach turn.
"You can play angry all you want, Isa. But our marriage and our company accounts are tied together. You cannot untangle this."
Priya ignored him. She pulled a portable scanner from her pocket and swiped the gold card through the slot.
"The logs are intact," Priya said, reading the tiny screen. "This card accessed the protection settings at eleven-sixteen last night. Secondary authentication was required."
She looked up, her gaze locking onto Victor. "It used your voice print, sir."
Victor lunged for the tray.
Priya snatched the card away, stepping back so fast she bumped into the wall.
Victor did not look at me. He did not offer another excuse. His eyes stayed glued to the gold plastic in Priya’s hand.
"Where is Camila right now?" Victor asked, with none of his usual polish in his voice.
Priya flipped the card over to check the serial number.
Across the white magnetic strip, three numbers were written in thick black marker.
"One forty-three," I read aloud.
Victor lost all the color in his cheeks.
Outside the cracked hospital door, the sharp rhythm of familiar footsteps abruptly stopped.
