She walked toward the door, her low heels clicking softly on the linoleum floor.

She stopped beside my bed and gave my hand a brief, firm squeeze.

“Rest,” Margaret said to me. “The nurses have instructions to let no one else in.”

She walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a soft hiss of air.

Grant did not move from the window.

Vanessa’s phone vibrated on the small table next to the visitor’s chair where she had left her designer handbag.

The screen lit up, illuminating a series of notifications.

She did not notice it immediately, her attention focused on Grant’s back.

“Grant, look at me,” Vanessa said, walking over to him and grabbing his arm. “We have options. We still have the offshore accounts.”

“They require dual signature from the trust secretary,” Grant said, his voice flat. “Margaret is the secretary.”

I watched Vanessa’s face carefully from my bed.

A strange look crossed her features—not just panic, but a calculating sharpness that I had seen many times in the corporate office.

She let go of his arm and stepped back, her eyes darting around the room.