The question hung in the sterile ICU air, heavy and suffocating, thick with the scent of rubbing alcohol and old dread.

The heart monitor beat at a steady, rhythmic pace. The oxygen tube was gone, replaced by a nasal cannula. My chest felt like it had been crushed by a hydraulic press, but my mind was razor-sharp—terrifyingly sharp.

The chair beside my bed was empty. Mara was gone.

I didn't call a nurse. Instead, I carefully slid my legs over the edge of the mattress, biting back a groan as my fractured ribs shrieked in protest. My bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor. I grabbed the IV pole for balance, dragging the heavy metal stand behind me like a ball and chain.

I needed answers, and the hospital room wasn't going to give them to me.

Moving like a man twice my age, I crept out into the dimly lit hallway of St. Catherine’s third floor. The night shift was quiet; a lone nurse was dobbing at a computer terminal down the hall, her back turned to me.

I headed straight for the nurses' station. On the counter sat an unattended administrative tablet left unlocked by a careless shift worker. My hands shook as I reached out and tapped the screen.

Search Patient Database.

I typed my own name: Grant Alexander Holloway.

Files cascaded down the screen. Medical history, emergency contacts, insurance details. And right there, under Next of Kin / Authorized Representative, was a name that made my blood run cold.

Mara Jane Holloway (Spouse).

Below that was a secondary field that hadn't been printed on the summary the legal officer showed me: Emergency Override Authorization - Granted via Power of Attorney, dated October 14, 2024.

Two years ago. Not nine years ago. Two years ago.

My breath caught in my throat. The marriage certificate from nine years ago was real, but it had been legally dormant—until two years ago, when someone had dusted it off, reactivated it, and signed a fresh Power of Attorney using my name.

I tapped the audit log to see who had accessed my file prior to the accident.

IP Address: Memorial General Hospital, ICU Ward 3. User: Dr. Aris Thorne.

Before I could dig deeper, a hand clamped down firmly on my shoulder.

“Mr. Holloway. What on earth are you doing out of bed?”

I spun around, wincing as my ribs pulled. It was the night-shift supervisor, a stern-looking woman with a clipboard pressed against her chest.

“Where is she?” I demanded, glaring at her. “Where did Mara go?”

“Mrs. Holloway left about an hour ago after receiving an emergency call,” the supervisor said, her expression softening slightly with professional sympathy. “She looked exhausted, Mr. Holloway. She hasn't slept in days. You really shouldn't be wandering around—”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Memorial General, I believe. One of the nurses heard her mentioning an ambulance transfer.”

I stared at her, the pieces violently colliding in my head. An ambulance transfer.

“Listen to me,” I said, gripping the nurse’s forearm with a desperate intensity that made her pull back. “That woman is not my wife in any way that matters. If she comes back, do not let her in. Do not let her sign anything. Do you understand me?”

“Mr. Holloway, legally—”

“Legally, she’s running a scam,” I hissed. “Call security. Call the police. Check my chart—someone forged a Power of Attorney two years ago. I want a forensic audit of my file right now.”

The supervisor’s eyes widened as she stared at the tablet screen still glowing in my hand. She saw the open audit logs, the Memorial General IP address, the unauthorized override.

Her professional demeanor vanished, replaced by genuine alarm.

“Get back into bed, Mr. Holloway,” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave. “I’m calling Dr. Thorne.”

“Dr. Thorne?” I echoed. “That’s the doctor from Memorial General.”

“No,” the nurse said, her fingers flying across the phone. “Dr. Thorne is the chief of trauma here at St. Catherine. And he’s the one who authorized your transfer into this private wing.”