Oops, Looks Like You're the One Dying, Sweetheart

"It's just a tumor, Adeline. Half the women in my bridge club have had things removed without bankrupting their husbands."

Martha set a porcelain teacup on the coaster in front of me. The liquid inside was barely lukewarm. No steam rose from the surface.

"It’s stage three, Martha," I said, my voice entirely flat. "The oncologist gave me two months without aggressive intervention."

"Doctors always exaggerate to push the expensive treatments." Martha waved a dismissive hand and sank into the floral armchair opposite the sofa. "You need to think rationally. Julian is launching a massive joint venture. He cannot afford distractions right now, let alone a two-hundred-thousand-dollar medical bill."

I turned my head. Julian sat at the far end of the couch. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch, his eyes fixed on the ice cubes near the rim.

"Julian," I said. "Is that how you feel?"

He didn't look up. He swirled the amber liquid. The ice clinked against the glass.

"Mom is just being practical," he muttered. "The Arts District deal requires all my liquid capital. If we pull funds now, we lose the property. You know how business works."

"My life is a distraction from your business."

"Don't twist my words." He finally met my gaze. His expression carried a practiced, weary patience. "We'll find a cheaper clinic. But throwing hundreds of thousands at a treatment with a low success rate? It’s reckless."

My chest didn't tighten. My throat didn't burn. The last fragile thread tying me to this man simply snapped, leaving a hollow, freezing void in its place. He wasn't just stealing my money for Elena. He was actively calculating the return on investment for my survival, and I had come up short.

Martha leaned forward, sliding a manila folder across the glass coffee table.

"Since we are having an honest conversation about the future," she began, tapping the heavy paper. "I had the family attorney draft this."

I picked up the folder and flipped the cover open.

*Irrevocable Transfer of Assets and Property Proxy.*

"What is this?" I asked.

"A precaution," Martha replied smoothly. "If your condition worsens, you won't be in the right state of mind to manage finances. This transfers your remaining equity in the house directly to Julian. It protects the family estate from medical debt collectors."

She pushed a silver fountain pen toward me. It rolled across the glass and stopped against the folder.

"Sign it, sweetheart. It’s the responsible thing to do."

I stared at the black ink on the page. They wanted the house, too. My grandmother’s sapphires, my mother’s bangle, my savings, and now the roof over my head. They were stripping me down to the bone.

Julian took a sip of his scotch. "It's just a formality, Adeline. Nothing changes day-to-day."

I picked up the silver pen. The metal felt heavy and cold against my skin. I clicked the cap off.

Martha’s eyes tracked my fingers. A faint, triumphant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

I pressed the nib to the paper. Then, I stopped.

"I can't sign this right now," I said, setting the pen down.

Julian stiffened. "Why not?"

"It needs to be notarized," I replied, meeting his sharp gaze without blinking. "If I sign a major asset transfer in your mother's living room while under medical distress, my divorce lawyer—or my estate executor—will instantly contest it as signed under duress. The courts will freeze the house."

Martha frowned, her triumphant smile vanishing. "You aren't getting divorced."

"I'm talking about legal loopholes." I closed the folder and tucked it under my arm. "You want this ironclad, right? I'll take it to First National tomorrow morning. Helen can notarize it. Then it's completely bulletproof."

Julian relaxed his shoulders. He gave his mother a brief, reassuring nod.

"She’s right," Julian said. "Helen handles all our joint accounts. It’s cleaner this way."

"Fine." Martha leaned back in her chair, lifting her teacup. "First thing tomorrow, Adeline. We need this settled."

"Consider it done."

I stood up. I didn't touch the tea.

"I'm heading home," I said. "I need to lie down."

"I'll stay and review the final contract drafts with Mom," Julian said, already pulling his phone from his pocket. "Take a cab if you're too tired to drive."

"I'll manage."

I walked out of the living room, leaving them in the quiet comfort of their shared victory. My shoes made no sound on the thick Persian rug as I crossed into the marble foyer.

I reached for my purse on the console table.

A sleek, black gift box sat next to the decorative brass bowl. It hadn't been there when I arrived. The delivery service must have dropped it off through the side door.

A thick crimson ribbon wrapped around the dark cardboard. Tucked beneath the knot was a heavy cream-colored card.

I pulled the card free and flipped it over.

*Martha — Thank you for the wonderful dinner last night. The recipe was divine. See you at the gala. — Elena.*

My thumb traced the sharp, elegant handwriting.

Last night. While Julian was supposedly working late, he had brought his mistress to his mother's house for dinner. Martha hadn't just known about Elena. She was actively hosting her, folding her into the family while simultaneously handing me a pen to sign away my home.

I shoved the card back under the ribbon.

I pushed the heavy oak front door open and stepped out into the biting afternoon wind. I walked down the paved driveway, my grip tight on the manila folder. They thought I was a dying woman easily managed. They had no idea I was meeting Marcus Thorne tomorrow with a stolen ledger.

I unlocked my sedan and slid into the driver's seat.

The leather was freezing. I tossed the folder onto the passenger side and pressed the ignition button. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the steering wheel.

My phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out. A text message lit up the lock screen.

The number was completely unfamiliar. No area code I recognized.

I tapped the notification.

*Marcus Thorne won't give you the two hundred thousand tomorrow.*

My pulse slammed against my ribs. I stared at the glowing screen. Nobody knew about my call with Marcus. Nobody.

A second text popped up immediately beneath the first.

*But I will. Meet me at the marina. Pier 4. Eight o'clock tonight. Come alone, Adeline.*