The pain from my ribs was a burning fire, but a new, colder terror was spreading through me. I was being hunted. My husband had tried to kill me. And his important partners—he was with the party. It was at my sister’s house.
I was alone, trapped in this hospital bed. A sitting duck.
I needed help.
In a last wave of desperate primal fear, I grabbed the hospital phone again. There was one last person. My sister, Tamara. Maybe she did not know. Maybe she would believe me.
My fingers trembled as I dialed her number from memory.
“Sister. Sister Tamara,” I choked out when she answered. The tears I thought had dried up were streaming down my face again, hot and panicked. “Please, you have to help me. I’m at Mercy General. I was in a crash. A truck hit me.”
I paused, sucking in a painful breath. And then I said the words out loud for the first time.
“Marcus, he was here. He stole my wallet while I was in a coma. And oh god, Tamara, I think he tried to kill me.”
The line was silent. Not the shocked silence I had hoped for. It was a heavy, annoyed silence.
“Immani.” Her voice, when it came, was not soft. It was high-pitched, sharp, and dripping with impatience. It was the voice she always used when I was an embarrassment. “What in the world are you talking about? Tried to kill you?” she snapped. “Are you drunk? What kind of nonsense are you trying to pull right now?”
“No. I’m… I’m in the hospital. I’m hurt. Please, you have to listen.”
“I don’t have time for this, Ammani,” she cut me off. “Do you have any idea what day it is? It’s Sunday. Ryan’s parents are here. His boss is here. We are in the middle of a very important barbecue for Ryan’s firm, and you are calling me with this… this drama.”
My mind went blank.
A barbecue.
She was worried about a barbecue.
“But Tamara, he’s spending my money. He’s at a party—”
“Of course he’s at a party, you idiot.” She laughed, a short, cruel sound. “He’s here. He’s in the backyard with Ryan right now.”
I could not breathe. He was there. He was at her house with her husband while I was in a hospital bed.
“Marcus is at your house?” I whispered, the cold terror now complete.
“Yes, he’s right outside,” Tamara’s voice was rising in frustration. “My husband Ryan is finally helping Marcus get back on his feet. He’s introducing him to his partners, helping him get funding for a new important deal. And you have the nerve to call here crying and accusing him of trying to kill you. You are unbelievable. You are just like you’ve always been—jealous and dramatic.”
“Jealous?” I was stunned.
“Yes, jealous. You’re jealous that I married a successful man,” she spat. “You’re jealous that Ryan is willing to help your deadbeat husband when you couldn’t. You just had to call and try to ruin it, didn’t you? You’re trying to make me look bad in front of Ryan’s family.”
“Tamara, no,” I pleaded. “He stole from me. He—”
“I don’t want to hear another word, Ammani. You are embarrassing me. You are embarrassing this family. Get yourself together. Take an Uber and go home. And do not call this house again.”
The line went dead. She hung up on me.
I sat there, the phone buzzing in my hand, the sound of the dial tone screaming in my ear. He was there. They were all together. My sister, my brother-in-law Ryan, and my husband Marcus. They were at a barbecue, laughing, making deals while spending my money.
After trying to kill me.
I slowly placed the phone back on the hook. The realization was absolute. I had no family. They were all in on it, or worse, they simply did not care. My life was less important than their connection to Ryan’s money, Ryan’s white-shoe firm, and the social status they craved.
I was the burden, the scapegoat, and I had just become a problem they needed to solve.
Two days passed. I did not cry again. The rage, so cold and so absolute, had burned away the panic and the pain. My broken ribs were just a dull ache, a background noise to the new sharp clarity in my mind.
I was no longer a victim in an accident. I was a survivor of an attack, and I was going to fight.
I spent those two days on the hospital phone, not with family, but with the only people who mattered—the law firm of Hayes and Associates. I spoke to Mr. Hayes himself. I told him everything: the crash, the timing, my husband’s phone call, my sister’s betrayal, and the stolen wallet.
His response was not emotional. It was immediate and tactical. He confirmed what I suspected. The $29 million trust was ironclad. My signature and my signature alone was required for any transfer. Marcus could not touch a single penny.
And that, Mr. Hayes explained, was precisely the problem. With me alive and well, Marcus got nothing. But if I were declared mentally incompetent after a tragic accident, or if I died, as my husband he could petition the court to take control of my estate.
This was why he needed me helpless or dead.
“Ms. Washington,” Mr. Hayes’s voice was firm over the phone line. “You are in danger. Do not speak to anyone. Not your husband, not your sister. We are handling this. I am sending our top litigator to you immediately. She will be your personal counsel. Her name is Brenda Adabio. She is the best. Do not say a word to anyone until she arrives.”
So I waited.
I stared out the window of my hospital room, watching the busy Atlanta traffic move below. My mind was no longer foggy with pain or grief. It was sharp as a razor. Every part of me was coiled, ready.
I was waiting for Brenda, but I was also waiting for him. I wanted Marcus to come. I needed him to show his hand.
And on the afternoon of the second day, he did.
I heard footsteps outside my room. A confident, arrogant stride I knew all too well.
The door to my room, 204, did not open gently. It was thrown open, slamming against the wall with a bang that made my heart leap.
He was here.
Marcus walked in. He was not the man I had spoken to on the phone two days ago. This was not my annoyed, frustrated, failing husband. This person was a stranger.
He was wearing a brand new Tom Ford suit, a deep rich navy blue that looked impossibly expensive under the harsh hospital lights. I knew with a sudden sickening certainty that my gold card had paid for that suit. His hair was freshly trimmed, a sharp, perfect lineup that he must have gotten that very morning.
He was smiling. It was not a warm smile. It was a cold, sharp, victorious smirk that made my skin crawl. It was the smile of a predator that had finally, finally cornered its prey.
But he was not alone.
He stepped aside, holding the door open like he was a perfect gentleman. A woman walked in after him. She was, I realized with a jolt of pure intimidation, the most powerful-looking woman I had ever seen. She was African-American, tall, and impossibly elegant. She wore a cream-colored structured designer suit that I was sure cost more than my entire salary for a year. Her heels clicked with sharp, loud authority on the linoleum floor. In one hand, she carried a dark, glistening Hermes briefcase. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, perfect bun, and her makeup was flawless.
She radiated a level of wealth and power I had only seen in movies.
My stomach dropped into a cold, dark pit.
Brenda Adabio.
It had to be. This was the name Mr. Hayes had given me. This was the top litigator, the best lawyer from his firm, the one who was supposed to be coming here to protect me.
But she was not here to protect me. She was walking in with her arm linked with my husband’s. She looked at Marcus with a fond, indulgent smile, and then her eyes moved to me. Her gaze swept over my body lying in the cheap, starchy, pale blue hospital gown. She took in my uncombed, matted hair. She saw the ugly purple and yellow bruises on my arm, the IV tube taped to my hand.
Her expression, which had been so warm for Marcus, instantly froze. She looked at me with a bored, clinical disdain. It was the look of someone who was about to step on an insect and was annoyed that it would dirty her shoe.
“Oh, look at that,” Marcus’s voice boomed into the room. It was jovial, loud, like he was greeting an old friend at a crowded party. “It’s still alive.”
He chuckled, a deep, ugly sound that rattled in his chest.
“I have to be honest, I really thought you’d be dead by now. I guess those doctors are better than I thought. What a shame.”
My mouth was dry. I could not find my voice. My heart was hammering against my broken ribs. I just stared at him and then at this terrifying woman.
This was a nightmare. This was a trap.
“Marcus,” I finally whispered. My voice was a hoarse, weak croak. “What… what are you doing here? Who is this?”
He laughed. A full, genuine belly laugh, like I had just told the funniest joke in the world. He walked right past my bed and stood next to Brenda, sliding a possessive, smooth arm around her tiny waist. He pulled her close and she leaned into him, her perfectly manicured hand resting on his chest. He leaned down and kissed her, a long, wet, proprietary kiss on the cheek.
“Immani, I’m hurt,” he said, pouting in fake sympathy. “Is that any way to greet your husband and your replacement?”
He gestured to the woman beside him, his smile widening to show all his teeth.
“Immani, I want you to meet Brenda. She’s… well, she’s my everything. My partner, my protector, my new wife.”
I stopped breathing. The beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor next to my head seemed to get louder, faster, screaming in the sudden silence.
“Well, she will be,” he corrected himself, waving his hand as if it were a minor, insignificant detail. “She’s my lawyer first, of course. And as soon as she’s finished cleaning up this mess—” he waved his hand in my direction, pointing at me in my bed with my broken ribs “—as soon as I am legally free of this trash, then she’ll be my wife. We’re getting married in Italy. She’s already booked the villa in Lake Como.”
The woman, Brenda, finally spoke. Her voice was exactly as I expected. Smooth, deep, and utterly indifferent, like she was ordering a coffee.
“Marcus, darling, can we speed this up? You said she was ready to sign. I have a three o’clock reservation at Bacchanalia, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Of course, baby. Anything for you,” Marcus said, kissing her temple like a devoted puppy. He then turned back to me, and his entire face changed. The happy, triumphant mask fell away. His eyes went flat, dead, and cold.
He reached into the inner pocket of his brand new suit jacket, the one I paid for, and pulled out a thick stack of folded legal papers. He walked to the side of my bed. He stood over me, holding the papers.
“You’ve been a real problem, Ammani. A real disappointment,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.
And then he threw the papers. He did not hand them to me. He threw them hard. They landed on my blanket, the sharp edge of the legal-sized paper striking my bruised chest, sending a jolt of pain that made me gasp.
“Sign them,” he ordered.
I looked down. The top page read: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
Divorce papers.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, my eyes darting to Brenda. “Mr. Hayes from the law firm… he said… he said you were coming to help me.”
Brenda actually laughed. It was not a nice sound. It was a short, sharp, mocking bark.
“Help you, honey? Look at you. You can’t even help yourself. Why in the world would I help you? I’m Marcus’s lawyer and his fiancée. And frankly, I find this entire situation pathetic.”
“But the firm. Hayes and Associates…”
“The firm works for its clients,” she said, tapping her expensive shoe impatiently on the floor. “And right now, my only client in this room is Marcus.”
“She’s the best lawyer in all of Atlanta, Ammani,” Marcus gloated, leaning in close. I could smell his expensive cologne, the one I had bought him for his last birthday. “And do you know what she’s going to do for me? She’s going to prove to the court what I’ve been saying for years. That you’re unstable. That you’re crazy.”
He tapped his finger against his temple.
“And now, after this terrible accident—” he made little air quotes with his fingers “—well, you’re clearly mentally incompetent. You’re traumatized. You can’t possibly be trusted to manage a large sum of money, can you?”
My blood ran cold.
The plan. This was the plan.
“You won’t get away with this,” I whispered. But the words had no strength, no power.
“Get away with it?” Marcus laughed again. “I already have. Brenda has already filed the petition. She has medical opinions. She has testimony.”
“Testimony from who?” I asked.
“Your sister, of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Tamara was more than happy to sign an affidavit saying you’ve been unstable and jealous for years. Your mother, too. They’re both very, very concerned about your mental state. They agree that I should be the one to manage your windfall.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper so Brenda could not hear.
“You really thought you could keep $29 million from me? You stupid, stupid woman. You thought you could just cut me out.”
“You… you tried to kill me,” I breathed, the words heavy and metallic on my tongue.
His smile vanished. His eyes were pure ice.
“Prove it,” he whispered back. “It was a tragic accident. You’re confused. You’re hallucinating. That’s what the judge is going to hear.”
He stood back up, straightening his suit jacket.
“So here’s the deal. You sign the papers. You sign over power of attorney to me. You agree that you are unwell and that I will manage your finances. In exchange, I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you get a nice room in a state-run facility, a quiet one, where you can’t hurt yourself.”
He picked up one of the papers and a pen, holding them out to me.
“Or you don’t sign. And Brenda here will paint you as so violently insane that the court will strip you of everything anyway. And then… well… who knows what happens to crazy people who have no one. They just disappear.”
He was giving me a choice. A living death, or a real one.
Brenda sighed impatiently.
“Marcus, enough. Just get her signature. If she refuses, we’ll proceed with the competency hearing on Monday. I’ve already filed the emergency motion.”
Marcus glared at me, his patience gone.
“Sign the papers, Ammani. Be smart for once in your pathetic life. You are a loser. You have nothing. No family, no friends, no money. I have everything. I have the money. I have the power. And I have the woman.”
He gestured to Brenda.
“She’s an upgrade in every possible way.”
He tossed the pen onto my blanket.
“You have one hour to sign before I come back. And if you don’t, I promise you, you will wish that truck had finished the job.”
He turned, put his arm back around Brenda’s waist, and they walked out of the room, their laughter echoing down the hallway.
I was paralyzed.
I stared at the woman—Brenda. This was the name, the name Mr. Hayes had given me. Brenda Adabio. The top litigator. The best. The shark who was supposed to swim in and save me. And here she was, not just with Marcus, but with him on his arm, his new wife.
My brain could not connect the two realities. Was this a trap? Had Marcus somehow bought her? Or had he lied to her so completely that she had no idea?
The woman standing in front of me, looking at me with such boredom and contempt, could not be my savior. She was my executioner.
Brenda sighed—a long, impatient sound that was pure theater. She tapped her immaculate blood-red fingernail on the face of her gold Cartier watch.
“Sign the papers, darling,” she said to Marcus, her voice bored. She did not even look at me. I was just a piece of administrative work she had to get through. “I have a three o’clock meeting with a major client. I can’t be late.”
“Of course, baby. Anything for you,” Marcus said, kissing her temple like a devoted puppy. He turned back to me, his face instantly hardening.
“You heard the lady. Sign the papers. You’re wasting her time.”
Brenda, still ignoring me, took the sheath of papers from his hand. She pulled a slim gold pen from her briefcase and clicked it.
“Let me just mark the signature lines. You’d be amazed how stupid people can be.”
She took off her sleek cat-eye glasses, also Cartier, and let them hang from a gold chain. She scanned the top page, her sharp eyes moving quickly.
“Petition for dissolution of marriage based on… yes, mental instability,” she murmured mostly to herself. “That’s good. And the secondary filing—emergency petition for conservatorship and medical power of attorney. Perfect.”
She flipped to the last page.
“All she has to do is sign here.” She pointed the pen at the line. “And the power of attorney, right here.”
She looked up, annoyed.
“Where is her name chart? I need to verify the spelling for the notary.”
Marcus, trying to be helpful, pointed a finger at the plastic bracelet on my wrist.
“It’s right there on her arm. See? They put it on her when she came in.”
Brenda leaned in. It was the first time she had actually looked at me instead of just through me. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the small white band on my wrist. She read the name printed in black block letters.
Immani Washington.
