His expensive suit looked wrinkled, and his hair was disheveled.

“You think you’ve won,” he said, turning his gaze back to me.

His voice was quiet, but it carried a venom that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

“I built that company,” he said, stepping closer to my bed.

Margaret immediately stepped between us, her hand resting on the metal guard rail.

“That is close enough, Mr. Holloway,” she said.

Grant ignored her, his eyes locked onto mine.

“You are a sick woman,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

“You almost died on that table, and you aren’t thinking clearly.”

“I am thinking more clearly than I have in years, Grant,” I said.

He let out a cold, chilling laugh.

He looked over at the medical monitors, then at the IV stand dripping fluids into my arm.

He looked at the chart hanging at the foot of my bed, his eyes lingering on the pages of my medical history.

“We’ll see what the court thinks of your mental state,” he whispered.

“We’ll see what the world thinks when they find out what really happened during that delivery.”