His fingers—cold, long, and impossibly heavy—were locked around my right wrist. The grip wasn't the twitch of an involuntary muscle spasm. It was deliberate, firm, and desperate.

It was Victor Vance, the longest-serving board member of Kane Industries and the man rumored to have buried more enemies than the Chicago River.

"So," Vance rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "The homeless stray has finally learned how to wear a collar."

I didn't step back. I lifted my chin, channeling every ounce of dignity I had left. "Mr. Vance. I wasn't aware visitors were permitted in the intensive-care wing without Sterling’s permission."

Vance chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that made my skin crawl. He limped slowly into the room, ignoring me as he walked straight to Everett’s bed. He reached out a trembling hand and tapped his cane sharply against the metal footboard.

"Wake up, you arrogant bastard," Vance whispered, not with sorrow, but with bitter, boiling hatred. "Your little empire is crumbling to dust while you sleep like a baby."

I stepped between him and the bed, my nursing instincts overriding my terror. "Step away from him."

Vance stopped and looked down at me, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "You think you're clever, nurse? You think because you stand here playing Florence Nightingale that you can save a monster? Everett Kane built his empire on blood, bones, and broken promises. Every man who ever loved him ended up in a shallow grave. And you? You're just a footnote in his obituary."

"He's my husband," I said coldly.

"He's a corpse with a heartbeat," Vance countered, leaning down until his foul breath brushed my cheek. "And when Sterling liquidates the remaining assets next week, you'll find yourself tossed back onto the streets with nothing—unless, of course, you're smart enough to switch sides."

My breath hitched. "Switch sides?"

Vance reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a thick manila envelope, slamming it onto the bedside table.

"Sign the asset transfer papers authorizing the sale of the waterfront warehouses, and I’ll make sure your mother's care facility is paid in full for the rest of her life. Refuse, and Sterling won't just throw you out—he’ll make sure you share a prison cell for forging medical records."

The room went dead silent. The blood roared in my ears.

They knew about my past. They knew about St. Ambrose Medical Center, about the falsified signature, about the ruined career. Whitfield hadn't just destroyed my life three years ago; he had kept me in his back pocket like a loaded gun, ready to be pulled out whenever the Kane syndicate needed a scapegoat.

"You set me up," I whispered, the horrifying realization washing over me like ice water. "At St. Ambrose... that wasn't an accident. You needed a nurse with a clean enough record to frame, and a vulnerable enough life to destroy so I'd have nowhere to run when you needed a compliant wife for Everett."