Chapter 4
Blood dripped from Marcus's palm onto the white tablecloth, but he didn't seem to notice.
"You've been spying on me?" His voice shook with barely-contained rage.
"No, Marcus. I've been waking up."
Linda suddenly grabbed her chest and began gasping. "My heart—Elena, you're giving me a heart attack with this stress! Marcus, call an ambulance—"
"Save it, Linda." I didn't even look at her. "There's nothing wrong with your heart. There never was."
Marcus rounded the table toward me, his bleeding hand leaving red smears on the furniture. For the first time, I saw the man behind the mask—and he was terrifying.
"Listen to me very carefully, Elena." He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Whatever you think you've found, you're going to forget it. You're going to sign those documents, and we're going to continue being a happy family."
"Or what?"
His eyes flickered to the balcony doors. Just for a split second. But I caught it.
And I smiled.
"Or you'll push me off the balcony on January eighteenth, like you're already planning to do?"
Every drop of color drained from his face.
"What... what the fuck are you talking about?"
"I heard you on the phone with Vanessa. The loosened railing. The suicide story. The insurance. All of it."
I stood up, forcing him to step back. I was done cowering.
"Here's what's going to happen instead. You're going to give me a clean, uncontested divorce. You're going to return every cent you stole from my trust. And you're going to confess to the insurance fraud."
Marcus stared at me like he was seeing a stranger.
Then he laughed. A cold, cruel sound.
"You stupid woman." He straightened up and wiped his bloody hand on a napkin. "You have no proof of anything. Recordings obtained without consent are inadmissible. Your little friend's financial traces mean nothing without court authorization."
He leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms, his confidence returning.
"And who do you think people will believe? A successful CEO with a spotless reputation? Or his mentally unstable wife who's been on antidepressants for three years?"
I froze. "I've never taken antidepressants."
"Haven't you?" He smirked. "Check your medical file at Mercy General. Dr. Hoffman has been documenting your 'severe depressive episodes' for quite some time. Prescriptions, therapy session notes, everything."
My stomach dropped.
"You fabricated a mental health record for me?"
"I planned ahead," he said simply. "When you eventually jump from that balcony, nobody will be surprised. Your own medical history supports it."
He stepped toward me again, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"So here's what's actually going to happen, Elena. You're going to sign those transfer papers. You're going to smile for the next two months. And then you're going to have a very tragic accident."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture grotesquely intimate.
"And if you go to the police with your little recordings, I will have you committed to a psychiatric facility before you can say a single word. The paperwork is already prepared. Your 'loving husband' seeking emergency involuntary hospitalization for his unstable wife."
I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears.
In my last life, this was the part where I would have broken. Where I would have cried and begged and believed I was powerless.
But I'd already died once. And death has a way of clarifying things.
"You think you've thought of everything," I said quietly.
"I have."
"Then you should have thought about why I'm showing my hand tonight instead of waiting."
The smug certainty on his face wavered for just a moment.
"What do you mean?"
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and held it up for him to see.
It was a text from Sophie: *Done. Everything's been submitted to the DA's office. They're issuing warrants tonight.*
The blood drained from Marcus's face for the second time.
"You're lying," he whispered.
The sound of a car pulling up outside cut through the silence. Then another. And another.
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Three black SUVs. Federal plates.
"You forgot one thing about me, Marcus." I turned back to face him. "My maiden name is Cross. And the Cross Family Trust has friends in very high places who are very interested in knowing where fifty-two million dollars was about to disappear to."
The doorbell rang.
"You've been spying on me?" His voice shook with barely-contained rage.
"No, Marcus. I've been waking up."
Linda suddenly grabbed her chest and began gasping. "My heart—Elena, you're giving me a heart attack with this stress! Marcus, call an ambulance—"
"Save it, Linda." I didn't even look at her. "There's nothing wrong with your heart. There never was."
Marcus rounded the table toward me, his bleeding hand leaving red smears on the furniture. For the first time, I saw the man behind the mask—and he was terrifying.
"Listen to me very carefully, Elena." He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Whatever you think you've found, you're going to forget it. You're going to sign those documents, and we're going to continue being a happy family."
"Or what?"
His eyes flickered to the balcony doors. Just for a split second. But I caught it.
And I smiled.
"Or you'll push me off the balcony on January eighteenth, like you're already planning to do?"
Every drop of color drained from his face.
"What... what the fuck are you talking about?"
"I heard you on the phone with Vanessa. The loosened railing. The suicide story. The insurance. All of it."
I stood up, forcing him to step back. I was done cowering.
"Here's what's going to happen instead. You're going to give me a clean, uncontested divorce. You're going to return every cent you stole from my trust. And you're going to confess to the insurance fraud."
Marcus stared at me like he was seeing a stranger.
Then he laughed. A cold, cruel sound.
"You stupid woman." He straightened up and wiped his bloody hand on a napkin. "You have no proof of anything. Recordings obtained without consent are inadmissible. Your little friend's financial traces mean nothing without court authorization."
He leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms, his confidence returning.
"And who do you think people will believe? A successful CEO with a spotless reputation? Or his mentally unstable wife who's been on antidepressants for three years?"
I froze. "I've never taken antidepressants."
"Haven't you?" He smirked. "Check your medical file at Mercy General. Dr. Hoffman has been documenting your 'severe depressive episodes' for quite some time. Prescriptions, therapy session notes, everything."
My stomach dropped.
"You fabricated a mental health record for me?"
"I planned ahead," he said simply. "When you eventually jump from that balcony, nobody will be surprised. Your own medical history supports it."
He stepped toward me again, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"So here's what's actually going to happen, Elena. You're going to sign those transfer papers. You're going to smile for the next two months. And then you're going to have a very tragic accident."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture grotesquely intimate.
"And if you go to the police with your little recordings, I will have you committed to a psychiatric facility before you can say a single word. The paperwork is already prepared. Your 'loving husband' seeking emergency involuntary hospitalization for his unstable wife."
I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears.
In my last life, this was the part where I would have broken. Where I would have cried and begged and believed I was powerless.
But I'd already died once. And death has a way of clarifying things.
"You think you've thought of everything," I said quietly.
"I have."
"Then you should have thought about why I'm showing my hand tonight instead of waiting."
The smug certainty on his face wavered for just a moment.
"What do you mean?"
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and held it up for him to see.
It was a text from Sophie: *Done. Everything's been submitted to the DA's office. They're issuing warrants tonight.*
The blood drained from Marcus's face for the second time.
"You're lying," he whispered.
The sound of a car pulling up outside cut through the silence. Then another. And another.
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Three black SUVs. Federal plates.
"You forgot one thing about me, Marcus." I turned back to face him. "My maiden name is Cross. And the Cross Family Trust has friends in very high places who are very interested in knowing where fifty-two million dollars was about to disappear to."
The doorbell rang.