Brandon froze—just a microsecond. Then his expression snapped back into place like nothing happened. “Sloane,” he breathed, performing relief. “You’re awake.”
“Don’t touch her,” Priya said quietly.
Brandon’s head turned sharply. “Excuse me?”
Evelyn slid a document across the tray table. “As of 6:23 p.m., you are no longer Sloane Mercer’s healthcare proxy, financial power of attorney, or company representative,” she said. “Those authorizations have been revoked, notarized, witnessed by hospital staff, and documented by her attending physician.”
Brandon’s face drained of color. “That’s not—she can’t—she’s drugged—”
Dr. Callahan stepped forward. “She is lucid,” he said evenly. “And competent.”
Mateo held up his phone. “And corporate control has been secured,” he added. “The board has been notified. Your access to company accounts is terminated pending review.”
Brandon’s mouth opened, then shut. His gaze flicked to me, searching for softness, confusion, guilt—anything he could exploit.
He found none.
He leaned down, voice low and dangerous. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
I spoke quietly, because my body didn’t have volume to spare. “Counting hours,” I said. “Just like you.”
Evelyn’s voice stayed calm, lethal in its steadiness. “You also may want to know something else,” she said. “We have a recorded statement from Sloane regarding comments you made while you believed she was incapacitated. If there is any suspicious change in her condition, we will provide it to law enforcement and the court.”
Brandon straightened fast. “You’re threatening me.”
“No,” Evelyn corrected. “We’re limiting you.”
Priya gestured to the door. “Visiting time is over,” she said. “You need to leave.”
Brandon stared at the room—at the witnesses, the paperwork, the reality that his private victory speech had turned into evidence.
He tried one last move: the wounded husband. “Sloane,” he pleaded, voice cracking on cue, “why are you doing this to us? I’ve been here every day—”
I looked at him and felt something settle—heavy, final, clean.
“Because I heard you,” I said.
His face hardened, and the act died.
“Fine,” he snapped. “Enjoy your little crusade. You’re not even going to make it to the weekend.”
The words landed like a confession more than an insult. Priya’s eyes sharpened. Dr. Callahan’s jaw tightened. Evelyn didn’t react—she just nodded once as if collecting a sample.
“Thank you,” Evelyn said softly to Brandon. “That was… helpful.”
Security escorted him out. The door shut. Silence returned.
I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt exhausted. But underneath the exhaustion was a quiet relief: even if my body lost the fight, my life wouldn’t be rewritten by someone who’d already started spending my money in his head.
Evelyn leaned close. “You did what you could,” she said.
I stared at the ceiling tiles and let my breath out slowly. “And if I survive,” I whispered, “I’m finishing the rest.”
Brandon didn’t come back that night—but he didn’t disappear either. He became something worse: a shadow with a plan.
At 9:40 p.m., Priya returned from the nurses’ station with her lips pressed tight. “Sloane,” she said, keeping her voice casual in case anyone was listening, “your husband filed a complaint.”
My stomach clenched. “About what?”
“He claims you’re being manipulated,” she said. “That you’re not competent. He requested an emergency ethics consult and demanded your chart access as ‘next of kin.’”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “He’s trying to overturn the revocation by creating doubt,” she said, already typing on her phone. “Classic. He’s building a narrative.”
Mateo’s phone buzzed too. He glanced down and went pale. “He’s contacting board members,” he said. “He’s telling them you’re unstable, that I’m staging a coup.”
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “He’s moving fast.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. “Because he just lost the easiest route.”
Priya checked my IV line with a calmness that felt protective. “Also,” she added, “he asked for a new nurse. Specifically, he asked that you not have Priya.”
Evelyn’s jaw tightened. “That’s not a coincidence.”
Priya’s eyes hardened. “He can ask,” she said, “but he doesn’t decide staffing. And I’ve already documented his behavior.”
A few minutes later, Dr. Callahan returned with a folder and a look that told me the hospital had shifted into defensive mode too. “We’re putting a visitor restriction in place,” he said gently. “Only pre-approved names. No exceptions.”
Evelyn exhaled. “Good. Add security notes about any attempt to access medications or equipment.”
I stared at her. “You think he’d go that far?”
Evelyn didn’t sugarcoat. “A man who hears you might die in 72 hours and starts counting cash already? He’s thinking in outcomes, not ethics.”
At 11:07 p.m., my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number:
STOP THIS. YOU’RE EMBARRASSING YOURSELF. SIGN PEACEFULLY AND I’LL TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING.
Then another:
IF YOU DIE FIGHTING ME, YOUR SISTER GETS NOTHING. ASK EVELYN ABOUT ‘ELECTIVE SHARE.’
My throat tightened. He wanted to scare me into thinking he still had legal control.
Evelyn leaned over, reading. “He’s not wrong about elective share as a concept,” she said. “But he’s wrong about your structure. He’s fishing for cracks.”
She turned to Mateo. “I need two things tonight: a full snapshot of Sloane’s access status across all corporate systems and a list of every board member Brandon has influence over.”
Mateo nodded. “Already on it.”
Priya dimmed the lights slightly. “Try to rest,” she urged, and her voice softened. “Let us hold the line for a few hours.”
I wanted to rest. My body begged for it. But sleep felt dangerous now—like open water.
I stared at the ceiling and listened to the ICU’s distant beeping.
Because Brandon wasn’t trying to win an argument anymore.
He was trying to win time.
And time was the one thing I didn’t have much of.
By morning, my hospital room really did feel like a war room—quiet voices, clipped decisions, everyone moving like the clock was a weapon.
Evelyn arrived at 6:30 a.m. with fresh copies, courier receipts, and a new kind of calm: the calm of someone who’d spent the night building traps.
“Good news,” she said, setting a folder on my tray. “We filed an emergency protective order for your assets, and we notified the bank’s fraud division. No transfers without dual verification.”
Mateo followed with his laptop open, eyes bloodshot. “He contacted three board members,” he reported. “Two ignored him. One—Darren Keene—asked for a ‘private chat.’”
“Keene is compromised,” Evelyn said instantly.
Then Dr. Callahan stepped in, expression hardened. “Risk management wants to speak with you,” he said. “Now. They’ve received calls.”
“From Brandon,” I said.
“From Brandon,” he confirmed.
Ten minutes later, two hospital administrators entered with professional smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. They asked questions that sounded neutral but weren’t: Was I pressured? Was I confused? Was I “feeling emotional”? Had I taken any sedatives?
Evelyn answered with me, but never for me.
“Sloane is alert,” Evelyn said. “Her attending has documented capacity. She has a notarized revocation. Any further interference will be treated as harassment.”
One administrator cleared his throat. “Mr. Hale is her spouse.”
“And,” Evelyn replied evenly, “he is no longer her legal agent.”
The administrator’s smile tightened. “He requested to be present for future clinical updates.”
My voice came out low but firm. “No.”
Silence.
Evelyn slid a paper across the table. “Add this to her file,” she said. “A written directive: no medical disclosure to Brandon Hale. No room access. No phone confirmation. No exceptions.”
When the administrators left, Priya exhaled. “He’s pushing every door,” she murmured.
“And now we close them,” Evelyn replied.
Around noon, the real escalation arrived—quiet, dressed as help.
A woman in a tailored blazer appeared at my door with a badge that looked official enough to fool anyone exhausted. “I’m with patient advocacy,” she said. “Mr. Hale is concerned you’re being isolated.”
Priya stepped forward instantly. “Name and department?”
The woman hesitated—half a beat too long.
Priya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not on our roster.”
The woman’s smile stiffened. “Maybe you can check again—”
Evelyn stood. “Leave,” she said.
The woman’s gaze flicked briefly to my bedside table—where my phone lay—and then she backed out too fast, like she’d come for something specific and hadn’t gotten it.
Priya locked the door behind her and looked at me, fury and concern mixing. “He sent someone,” she whispered.
Evelyn’s face was cold now. “He’s done pretending this is about grief.”
Mateo’s phone buzzed again. He read, then swore under his breath. “Brandon filed for emergency temporary control,” he said. “He’s claiming you’re incapacitated and that your company is ‘at risk’ without him.”
My chest tightened. “Can he win?”
