“There’s a catch,” Marisol added, stopping at a red light. “If you don’t accept, Vance says they will file a counter-suit.”

“On what grounds?”

“They are going to claim you are mentally unstable,” Marisol said, looking over at me with concern. “They want to subpoena your medical records from the burn unit.”

My stomach dropped.

“They want to argue that your injuries caused cognitive decline,” she continued. “And that you consented to all the financial transfers during your recovery.”

The light turned green, and Marisol stepped on the gas.

“He wants to drag your name through the mud, Elena,” she said. “He’s threatening to make the trial as painful and public as possible.”

I stared out the window at the passing palm trees.

The thought of my medical records being read aloud in a courtroom made my skin crawl.

The details of the fire, the agonizing debridement sessions, the moments I begged the nurses for more morphine.

Derek knew how much I feared public scrutiny.

He had always used my vulnerability as a weapon.

“We can’t let him do this,” I whispered.