Chapter 4 - The Weight of the Gavel
Z
The ICU at St. Jude’s Hospital smelled faintly of bleach and heavy electricity. The constant, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor was the only sound keeping the room anchored to reality.
I stood beside the bed, looking down at Nathan. He looked impossibly small amidst the tangle of clear plastic tubing and heavy medical machinery. A ventilator forced air into his lungs with a rhythmic, mechanical hiss. His face was pale, almost translucent, bruised by the trauma of the stroke.
This was the man who had hit my brother's car and driven away into the dark. This was the man who had given me his kidney. This was the man who had tricked me into loving him.
"He has no brainstem activity, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Reynolds, his chief oncologist, said quietly from the doorway. "The stroke was massive. The cancer had metastasized to his cerebral cortex. We are only keeping his heart beating because of his legal proxy instructions. The moment you sign the release, we will remove the respirator."
I reached out, my fingers trembling as I hovered over his arm. I touched his wrist, feeling the faint, artificial pulse pushed through his veins by a machine.
"Why didn't he tell me he was rich?" I asked, staring at his closed eyelids.
"Nathan built Vance Medical Technologies from scratch after college," Dr. Reynolds explained. "He was a brilliant engineer. But he lived like a monk. He donated eighty percent of his income to medical research anonymously. He didn't want your love to be bought, Maya. He was terrified that if you knew about his wealth, you would think he was trying to pay you off."
"He was trying to pay me off," I said bitterly. "With a kidney. With a fortune. With his death."
"Perhaps," Dr. Reynolds replied gently. "Or perhaps he was just a desperately broken man trying to repair the one thing he broke before his time ran out."
The doctor placed a clipboard on the bedside table. Attached to it was the authorization form for the cessation of life-sustaining treatment. A pen lay beside it.
I picked up the pen. My fingers felt numb. If I signed this paper, Nathan Nathaniel Vance would officially cease to exist. The guilt, the secrets, the twisted love story—it would all be buried under six feet of dirt. I would inherit tens of millions of dollars. I could secure my parents' retirement, pay off my brother's medical debts, and live the rest of my life in luxury with the very kidney he gave me.
It was the ultimate settlement. A life for a life. A fortune for a tragedy.
I pressed the tip of the pen to the paper. M-a-y-a...
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ICU swung open with a bang.
"Stop! Don't you dare sign that paper!"
I turned around, startled. Standing in the entrance was a woman I had never seen before. She was impeccably dressed in a tailored navy trench coat, her sharp features framed by dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek chignon. Her eyes were red-rimmed, burning with raw fury and panic.
Behind her, two hospital security guards were trying to hold her back. "Ma'am, you can't be in here! This is a restricted unit!"
"Get your hands off me!" the woman snarled, shoving one of the guards away with surprising force. She marched straight up to my side of the bed, ignoring the guards entirely, her eyes locked on me with lethal intensity.
"Who are you?" I demanded, clutching the clipboard to my chest.
"I am Evelyn Vance," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "I am Nathan's legal wife."
The room went completely silent except for the mechanical hiss of the ventilator.
I felt as though the floor under my feet had dissolved into thin air. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me, you little leech," Evelyn said, taking a step closer, her eyes scanning my wedding band-less finger. "Nathan and I were married six years ago in Chicago. We never divorced. We were separated, yes, but no decree was ever signed. Which means his marriage to you four days ago is legally void. It’s bigamy."
May you like
She snatched the clipboard right out of my hands and tossed it onto the floor.
"You don't own his estate, Maya," Evelyn sneered, leaning in close until I could smell her cold perfume. "And you damn sure don't get to decide when he dies."
