The plastic oxygen tube chafed the skin under my nose.

My vision was blurry, stained with the harsh, white glare of the ICU ceiling lights.

Every breath hurt my ribs.

“Sign it,” Grant said.

He stood at the foot of my bed, his tailored charcoal suit pristine.

There was no blood on him, no sweat, no trace of the twelve hours he had spent waiting for the surgeons to finish.

He held a silver fountain pen in his right hand.

In his left, he held a thick sheaf of white papers.

“What is that?” I whispered.

My voice was a dry rasp, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner.

“The dissolution of our marriage,” Grant said.

He did not look at my abdomen, where the stapled incision burned beneath the sterile bandages.

He did not ask about our children.

“You nearly died,” he continued, his tone as flat as a quarterly corporate earnings report. “But you didn’t. The triplets are in the incubator downstairs. Our arrangement is over.”

A woman stepped out from the shadow of the window blinds.

It was Vanessa, his chief of staff.

She wore a silk blouse the color of bruised plums and held her tablet close to her chest.

“The paperwork is already filed with the court, Chloe,” Vanessa said, her voice smooth and practiced. “Grant has signed his portion. You just need to acknowledge the receipt.”

“My babies,” I managed to say. “Where are my babies?”

“They are being cared for,” Grant said, stepping closer to the bedside rail. “But they are Holloway heirs. They stay with me. You leave with nothing.”

He laid the pen on my trembling hand.

The heavy gold band on his ring finger caught the fluorescent light.

I couldn’t move my fingers to grasp the pen.

The heavy wooden door to the ICU suite clicked open.

Margaret Voss walked in.

She was seventy years old, her silver hair pulled into a tight, professional bun, carrying a weathered leather briefcase.

She had been his late grandfather’s personal attorney for forty years.

“Step away from the patient, Grant,” Margaret said.