Chapter 1: The Countdown
"Die before Friday, Dominic.
The fortune is easier to claim when you are gone." Those were the words my fiancée breathed into my ear before pressing a parting kiss to my head and walking off, assuming I lay helpless in a coma.
Little did she know, I was awake and tracking every utterance, with only the overlooked maid noticing that things were not as they seemed.
Five nights ago, my car cr@shed along the FDR after a saboteur cut my vehicle's brakes.
Nico l0st his life right there in the wreckage.
When I came to inside the ambulance, nursing cracked ribs and bleeding gums, one undeniable truth seared through my agony: whoever wanted me g0ne was someone close enough to track my every step.
So I executed a plan.
"Let them believe my consciousness is gone," I directed my personal medical advisor.
By morning light, New York assumed Dominic Moretti had slipped into unconsciousness.
Though my injuries were authentic, the coma was entirely fabricated.
Throughout five long days, I maintained absolute stillness within a VIP Manhattan hospital room as my inner circle exposed their true colors.
Beside the glass, my consigliere shed silent tears.
Anthony, my cousin, plotted aloud about "updating the family business." A political figure I had lifted from obscurity pledged allegiance to the new regime.
My legal counsel haggled over trusteeships and hidden accounts as though I were already bound for the morgue.
Then Veronica arrived.
She put on a masterclass in bereavement whenever the nurses walked in.
Adorned in dark silk, devoid of makeup, sporting one strategically placed tear.
But behind closed doors, her true persona emerged.
"You should have signed over all assets when I demanded it." The following day, she sneered that I was an old man.
I was only forty-six.
Then, on the fifth afternoon, she leaned so close I could smell her perfume.
"Die before Friday, Dominic.
The money moves faster when you stop breathing." That sentence confirmed everything.
Or almost everything.
Three minutes after Veronica's exit, softer footsteps padded into the room.
"Mr.
Moretti?" I recognized the voice immediately.
Grace Miller.
She had scrubbed my penthouse for six months, moving through the halls so quietly that people like Veronica treated her like a ghost.
Grace replaced the white lilies beside my bed.
"I hate these," she murmured.
"They smell like a funeral home pretending to be a wedding." For the first time in days, I nearly smiled.
Then she pulled my blanket higher over my shoulder.
Not for show.
Not because anyone was watching.
Just because she thought I might be cold.
"I heard what she said to you," Grace murmured.
My instincts sharpened.
She drifted closer.
"I heard Miss Hale yesterday too, saying mourning is only useful for photo ops." Her voice wavered.
"I know my job is to act like background furniture who hears nothing." She paused.
"But what she said just now…" Grace swallowed.
"That wasn't grief." Silence blanketed the room.
"That was a countdown."
My heart thudded once, hard.
Grace brought her face near my pillow.
"If my words reach you, Mr.
Moretti, hear me out." Her tone dropped to a breathless whisper.
"I fear they plan to finish what the crash missed." Then her fingers brushed against mine beneath the sheet.
She went rigid.
Why?
Because my pinky finger moved.
Just a twitch.
Barely perceptible, yet undeniable.
Grace caught her breath sharply.
I opened my eyes.
Her face turned ghost-white.
Before she could make a sound, I spoke the first words to leave my lips in five days.
"Lock the door."
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Veronica thought Dominic was already g0ne.
Grace was the only one who knew the truth.
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What happens when he opens his eyes?
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