I was forced to marry Chicago’s most feared crime boss while he lay unconscious, and the men who arranged it laughed through the entire ceremony. They thought he was nothing more than a living corpse—but the moment I leaned down and promised I would never betray him, the heart monitor spiked, proving the man everyone believed was gone had heard every word.

The next forty-eight hours were a exercise in calculated nerve. Every time footsteps echoed down the marble hallway outside Everett’s suite, I had to force my hands to stop shaking, step away from his bedside, and assume the role of the quiet, heartbroken bride.

Dr. Whitfield returned at noon the following day, his polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. He carried a fresh velvet-lined case, his expression smug with the quiet arrogance of a man who believed he was utterly untouchable.

"Still hovering, Clara?" Whitfield asked smoothly, drawing a new syringe from his pocket. "You know, stress isn't good for a young widow-to-be. You should sleep."

"I sleep fine, Doctor," I replied, standing near the window with my arms crossed, watching his every movement with eagle eyes. "I was just reviewing Everett’s vitals chart. His pulse pressure has broadened slightly over the last twenty-four hours."

Whitfield paused, his fingers tightening on the plunger. He cast a sharp, suspicious glance toward me. "You shouldn't be reading his charts. Your license was revoked for a reason, remember? You lack the discipline for medicine."

The insult was designed to sting, to make me recoil and back down as I had three years ago in that administrative hearing. Instead, it anchored my resolve.

"I know how to read a heart monitor, Whitfield," I said softly, stepping closer so I could position myself between him and the IV port. "And I know what a toxic overload looks like."

Whitfield’s jaw clenched. He took a step toward me, towering over me with cold menace. "Listen to me very carefully, Clara. Sterling owns this house. He owns the police chief, he owns the board of health, and he owns you. If Everett Kane dies of a sudden cardiac arrest tonight, no one will bat an eye. If you interfere, your mother’s facility will lose its funding before sunset."

From the bed, completely hidden from Whitfield's angle, Everett’s right index finger tapped once against the bedsheet—a silent instruction. Let him inject it.

I had already swapped the medication vial in Whitfield's bag hours earlier, replacing the paralytic toxin with sterile saline mixed with a harmless vitamin complex.

I feigned defeat, ducking my head and stepping back. "Just... don't hurt him," I whispered, putting on a show of weak compliance.