They were his private security detail, waiting for his instruction.

Grant’s phone buzzed again, a new message appearing from his lead attorney.

He stared at the screen, his face turning a pale, sickly color.

I watched the color leave his face from my hospital bed.

The monitor beside my pillow hummed, a steady, rhythmic beep that sounded far too peaceful for the room.

Grant stared at his screen, his thumb hovering over the glass as if he could force the red banners to disappear.

“What does it say, Grant?” I asked, my voice still raspy from the intubation tube.

He did not look at me.

He kept his eyes locked on his phone, his jaw muscles clenching so hard a small vein pulsed near his temple.

“It is a temporary glitch,” Grant said, though his voice lacked its usual sharp authority.

“It is not a glitch,” Margaret said.

She stood near the foot of my bed, her posture perfectly straight, her leather briefcase resting on the rolling overbed table.

“I have just submitted the formal notice of asset preservation to the central clearing house,” Margaret added.