The day the doctor told me I had only 7 days to live, my husband squeezed my hand so hard that for a second, I thought he was doing it to keep from breaking down in front of me. But instead, he leaned in, brushed my ear with his lips, and whispered a sentence that killed me faster than any diagnosis ever could

When Derek left the room, pretending to be the devoted husband, I stared at the closed door. Then I forced my trembling body to move. Under my pillow was a tablet I had hidden three days earlier because some quiet instinct had warned me not to trust anyone completely. Through it, I could access the security cameras in my father’s house—the house that was now mine, the house Derek was already treating like his inheritance.

With shaking hands, I called Rosa first.

Rosa had worked at our estate since I was a child. People called her the housekeeper, but she was more family than most of my blood relatives. My father trusted her completely. When I was younger and complained about it, he always told me, “You don’t recognize loyalty when people clap for you, Elena. You recognize it when everyone else is already counting what they’ll get when you’re gone.”

Rosa answered on the second ring.

“Little girl?”

She was the only person who still called me that.

“If you don’t help me today,” I whispered, “I won’t make it to the seventh day.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Go to the house. Check the laundry room, kitchen, garden—everything. And call Attorney Whitman. Now.”

“I’m going.”