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.

Sterling Kane sat behind the massive mahogany desk, swirling amber bourbon in a heavy crystal glass. To his left sat Victor Vance, and standing near the fireplace, looking entirely too smug in his crisp white coat, was Dr. Alan Whitfield.

Two armed security guards shoved me through the doorway, making me stumble onto the imported Turkish rug.

"Ah, the blushing bride," Sterling mocked, flashing his brilliant, soulless smile. "Do take a seat, my dear. We have some family business to discuss."

I didn't sit. I stood tall, keeping my hands steady inside the pockets of the emerald dress, clutching the encrypted flash drive I had pulled from Everett's lockbox.

"Cut the act, Sterling," I said, my voice cutting through the smoky air like a scalpel. "You didn't bring me down here to talk about family business. You brought me here to force another signature out of me."

Sterling’s smile vanished instantly. The charm drained from his face, leaving behind the cold, ruthless features of a man who viewed human beings as disposable inventory.

"You're punching way above your weight class, homeless girl," Sterling hissed, leaning forward over the desk. "You think because you married a comatose vegetable you have rights in this house? Vance told you what happens if you don't cooperate. We can ruin your mother, burn her nursing home to the ground, and frame you for drug trafficking by tomorrow morning."

"Is that why Dr. Whitfield is here?" I asked, turning my cold gaze toward the physician. "To prescribe another dose of synthetic catatonic poison for my husband?"

Dr. Whitfield flinched visibly, his composure cracking for a fraction of a second. "That's absurd. I am a licensed medical professional providing palliative care—"

"A licensed professional?" I interrupted, stepping forward. "Funny... because Everett's safe upstairs holds a revocation notice from the state medical board dated five years ago for illegal narcotics trafficking. You lost your license, Whitfield. You're not treating him—you're executing him on retainer."

The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.

Sterling slowly set his bourbon glass down, the crystal clinking sharply against the wood. He turned his head toward Whitfield, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure ice.

"Is this true, Alan?" Sterling asked softly, a terrifying edge to his voice.

Whitfield’s face went pale as chalk. "She's lying! She's a delusional, disgraced nurse trying to save her own skin!"