After the doctors told me I had five days to live, my young wife leaned over and whispered, "I've been p0is0ning you for months.

When you're gone, your $82 million will belong to me and my lover." I didn't argue—I quietly signed one document that turned her celebration into a murder investigation.

**PART 1**

"You're finally going to die, Jonathan.

I'm so sick of pretending to love you."

Jonathan Mercer opened his eyes just enough to make out his wife's face leaning over his hospital bed.

Outside, heavy rain lashed the high-rise windows of St.

Jude Medical Center in downtown Chicago.

Inside the room, the heart monitor tapped out a faint, erratic rhythm.

Earlier that morning, the cardiologist had spoken to the nurse just outside the door, believing Jonathan was asleep.

"Five days, maybe less," the doctor had whispered.

"The damage to his heart tissue is simply too extensive."

Jonathan was fifty-six years old.

He owned a commercial furniture manufacturing plant in Milwaukee, a sprawling estate in Naperville, two luxury downtown condos, and liquid accounts totaling over $82 million.

He also had a wife sixteen years his junior—elegant, attentive, and seemingly devoted.

Or so he had believed for four years.

Victoria checked to ensure the door was firmly shut, then turned back to him with a slow, cold smile.

It wasn't the sweet, worried expression she wore in front of the medical staff.

It was icy, triumphant, and completely devoid of warmth.

"Your factory, your properties, your stock portfolio…

all of it will be mine," she murmured, her voice dripping with venom.

"Raymond and I have already picked out a home in Malibu.

You worked your entire life like a dog, and we're going to enjoy every last cent of it."

Jonathan attempted to speak, but only a dry, rasping gasp escaped his throat.

"Don't strain yourself," Victoria said softly, leaning down closer.

"The dig0xin did its job.

In tiny doses, it helps a weak heart.

In the wrong doses, it slowly destroys it.

Do you remember those daily heart supplements I brought you every single night?

You never questioned a thing.

You trusted me far too much."

The heart monitor's steady tone accelerated slightly.

Victoria rested a manicured hand on his chest, pretending to soothe him.

"Calm down, sweetheart.

Don't go dying on me before I finish saying goodbye."

She pulled out a compact, touched up her lipstick, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and added, "The funeral service will be brief and private.

It would be absurd to waste good money on a d\*ad man when I have a new Porsche to buy."

When she finally walked out, Jonathan stared at the ceiling as tears welled in his eyes.

He wasn't crying out of fear of d\*ath.

He was crying because every tender touch, every soft embrace, and every "I love you" over the past four years had been a cold, calculated performance.

Minutes later, Lucas Bennett stepped into the room.

Lucas was a twenty-five-year-old orderly who often went out of his way to help Jonathan without ever being asked.

Dark circles dragged beneath the young man's eyes.

"Evening, Mr.

Mercer," Lucas said quietly, adjusting the blanket.

"Can I get you some water?"

Jonathan remembered hearing the nurses talk about Lucas.

The young man worked double shifts at the hospital and took night shifts loading delivery trucks because his fourteen-year-old sister, Chloe, suffered from a severe congenital heart defect.

She desperately needed specialized reconstructive surgery—an operation costing $2.4 million, an impossible sum for their family.

"Come closer, Lucas," Jonathan rasped.

"I want to make you a proposal."

Lucas frowned slightly, looking concerned.

"Mr.

Mercer, if this is about extra care—"

"I don't do anything illegal, sir."

"That is precisely why I chose you," Jonathan said, his voice strengthening through sheer force of will.

"Call my attorney.

Tomorrow morning, I am changing my will."

---

Victoria thought she had won everything.