I woke to the hum of an infusion pump and the weight of plaster around my right hand.
A plastic surgeon had closed the cut in my cheek with twelve stitches. An orthopedic specialist had reset three fingers and pinned the worst fracture, but the nurse refused to discuss long-term damage. Every answer ended with the same sentence: Mr. Palmer will speak with you.
The door opened shortly after sunrise.
Darcy entered carrying a crushed bundle of daisies. Felix followed in a gray suit, clean and composed, as if the previous night had never happened.
“Oh, good,” Darcy said. “The painkillers did not kill you.”
She dropped the flowers onto my chest. Bent stems and yellow petals scattered across the blanket.
“I brought something cheerful,” she added. “Your room looked so depressing.”
Felix stopped beside the window. He did not ask whether I could move my fingers. His attention fixed on my face, measuring the swelling around the stitches.
I kept my gaze on the blanket. Anger would not help my grandmother. Pride would not keep a ventilator running.
“I am sorry,” I said.
Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “For what?”
“For the argument. For the damage to the studio.”
“And my dress.”
“And your dress.”
She smiled. “That was not difficult, was it?”
Felix crossed the room and gripped my chin. His thumb rested just below the fresh stitches.
“Look at me.”
I obeyed.
“You tried to call the police,” he said.
“I was bleeding.”
“You challenged Darcy in front of witnesses.”
“She attacked me.”
His fingers tightened. Pain pulled at the sutures.
“Wrong answer.”
I swallowed everything I wanted to say. “It will not happen again.”
“Better.”
Darcy perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair. “Tell her the other good news.”
Felix released my face and removed his phone from his pocket. He opened a live hospital feed.
My grandmother lay in a private intensive-care room, her silver hair brushed away from her forehead. A ventilator lifted and lowered her chest. Monitors blinked steadily around her bed.
I reached for the screen with my left hand. “Where is she?”
“East District Medical Center,” Felix said. “A private cardiac facility outside the city.”
“Let me see her.”
“When you are discharged.”
“Her surgery was scheduled for this morning.”
“It was postponed.”
My gaze snapped to his. “Why?”
“The surgeon requires a new financial guarantee.”
“You said you paid.”
“I guaranteed her care while you remained cooperative.”
The room seemed to tilt. I caught the bed rail with my left hand.
Darcy picked a petal from the blanket and tore it in half. “You should have thought about your grandmother before provoking me.”
“She had nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it,” Felix said. “She is the only leverage you still respect.”
I stared at him, waiting for some sign that he understood the ugliness of his own words. There was none.
“What do you want?”
“A transfer agreement.”
He placed a slim folder on the bedside table. Inside was a preliminary inventory of the remaining Sterling assets: my minority shares in three family trusts, the deed to the studio property, licensing rights to paintings sold under my legal name, and a small investment account my grandmother had protected from the first debt settlement.
“You already control everything else,” I said.
“I control it through contracts you continue to challenge. This makes the arrangement permanent.”
Darcy leaned toward me. “Sign, and maybe he will let the old woman keep breathing.”
Felix gave her a warning glance, but only because she had said the quiet part too bluntly.
I turned the first page with my left hand. “This is not only an asset transfer.”
“No.”
The final section authorized Felix’s attorneys to petition for a temporary guardianship order, using my supposed instability as evidence. It also recorded my consent to enter Willow Creek, a private psychiatric residence, for evaluation.
“You want to lock me away.”
“I want options.”
“I have never been diagnosed with a psychiatric illness.”
“You threatened police involvement, destroyed property, and behaved irrationally during a domestic dispute. With the right affidavits, a judge will authorize an evaluation.”
“You mean with paid affidavits.”
Felix’s eyes hardened. “Do not waste the patience you just earned.”
A hand specialist entered, studied the tension in the room, and quietly approached my bed. “Ms. Sterling, the fractures are stabilized, but the ring finger may need reconstructive surgery within seventy-two hours. Delaying increases the risk of permanent stiffness.”
“Schedule it,” I said.
The doctor looked at Felix.
Not me. Felix.
“We will decide later,” Felix said.
The specialist closed the chart. “Understood.”
He left without meeting my eyes.
Darcy watched the door shut. “Maybe a stiff hand would improve her work. Less copying.”
I ignored her. “Give me the contract.”
Felix did not hand it over. “Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because this room is monitored, and I prefer important decisions made in private.”
He slipped the folder back beneath his arm.
I looked again at the live feed of my grandmother. “Promise me the surgery happens if I sign.”
Felix locked his phone and put it away. “You are not in a position to request promises.”
“Then give me something in writing.”
His smile was slight and terrible. “You still believe paper protects people.”
Darcy rose and adjusted her coat. “We should go. She is starting to sound brave again.”
At the door, Felix paused. “Rest. You will need your strength this afternoon.”
“For what?”
“To convince me your grandmother is worth the expense.”
They left together.
Ten minutes later, a nurse entered with an administrator’s notice. Her hands shook as she placed it on my tray.
“The Palmer Foundation withdrew its financial guarantee,” she said. “East District will continue emergency stabilization for twenty-four hours, but they will not perform the surgery without payment.”
“Transfer her to a public hospital.”
“We tried. No cardiac ICU has accepted the transfer, and Mr. Palmer’s office is listed as the contact for the outstanding lien.”
I read the notice twice before the words made sense.
“What happens after twenty-four hours?”
The nurse looked toward the closed door.
Then she forced herself to answer.
“At midnight tomorrow, the facility will seek authorization to discontinue non-emergency support.”
On the paper beneath her signature, the deadline was printed in black ink.
Felix had not given me a choice.
He had issued a death warrant.
