The night before I was supposed to give birth, I overheard my husband offering my doctor $500,000 to make sure I never left the delivery room alive.
I was eight months and three weeks pregnant, lying perfectly still in my hospital bed while the man I had loved for seven years whispered, “Make it look like a complication.
Infect her during delivery, let her die, and the money is yours.” For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
Then Dr. Adrian Cole answered quietly from the sitting room of my private hospital suite.
“Five hundred thousand?” My husband, Nathan, chuckled. “You’ll get half tomorrow.
The rest after the funeral.” My fingers tightened around the blanket. Nathan believed I was unconscious because he had secretly slipped a sedative into my tea.
What he didn’t know was that I had seen him crush the pill. The moment he stepped away, I poured the entire cup down the bathroom sink.
Through the partially open bedroom door, I could see him standing beside the doctor in the expensive charcoal suit I had bought him for our anniversary.
“Once Audrey is gone,” Nathan said, “everything transfers without a problem.”
