Chapter 4

"Final sweep. Hand over everything you have."

Marcus pushed the door open. It was 10:15 PM.

I had already been forced into the blue-and-white striped sanitarium gown. My wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed rails with medical restraints.

He held a clipboard, checking off items one by one.

"Phone."

"On the nightstand."

"Wedding ring."

"Left hand." He walked over, twisted the ring off my finger, examined it, and tossed it into a plastic evidence bag.

"Necklace."

"Your men took that three years ago."

"Earrings."

"I don't wear them."

"Shoes."

"You expect me to walk into the sanitarium barefoot?"

"They provide slippers there." He picked up my sneakers. "Anything else?"

"Nothing."

He sealed the bag, signed his name, and wrote down the date and time: *22:13*.

But he didn't leave.

He pulled out his phone, leaning against the doorframe as he scrolled.

"Do you know how many years I've been in this business, Elena?"

"No."

"Eleven years. I’ve worked as private security for six wealthy families. You've been the easiest to manage."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"It's not a compliment. It's just a fact." He kept his eyes on his screen, his voice flat. "The first year, you cried. The second year, you stopped crying, but you kept asking why. The third year, you stopped asking altogether."

"You call it easy. I call it dead inside."

"Same difference. A quiet target makes my job easier."

His phone rang. The caller ID showed *Victoria*.

He put it on speaker.

"Marcus, what time is the transport arriving?"

"Eleven o'clock. About forty minutes."

"Have you coordinated the insurance paperwork with Richard?"

"Yes. There is a psychological re-evaluation window fifteen days after admission. Director Hayes says that’s the perfect time to act."

"Why fifteen days?"

"If she dies within two weeks of admission, the insurance company will launch an investigation. But an 'accident' after fourteen days goes through standard probate without triggering an audit."

"Understood. One more thing—have Richard prepare the deed transfer documents for her two properties. Speed up the conservator's signature process. Do it before... well, you know."

"Before what, Mrs. Vance?"

Victoria paused for a second.

"Before her accounts are frozen. You understand."

"Understood."

The call ended.

Marcus slipped the phone back into his pocket.

In fifteen days, I would suffer a sudden cardiac arrest. The death certificate would blame a drug allergy. The insurance payout would be one hundred and fifty million dollars. My dowry, shares, and properties would all belong to the Vance family.

They discussed how to murder me and split my assets right in front of my face on speakerphone.

They didn't even bother to whisper.

Because in their eyes, I was already dead.

Marcus walked to the window and glanced downstairs.

"The transport is almost here. I’m going down to coordinate. Stay put—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Because the lights went out.

Not just in my room. Every light in the hallway, the staircase, the entire estate—blacked out.

His phone screen flickered, and the signal bar plunged from full to *No Service*.

Outside the window, the garden lights, the driveway lamps, and the security cameras on the perimeter walls went dark instantly.

The only thing glowing in the pitch-black room was the faint blue backlight of my heart-rate tracker.

Then, that light died too.

The entire Vance estate security system—308 high-definition cameras, 24 biometric locks, and the smart home mainframe—went offline in the exact same second.

Three seconds of absolute silence.

Then, a voice crackled through Marcus’s tactical earpiece.

It wasn't one of his men.

"Shadow Squad is in position. All twelve targets locked. Awaiting orders."

Marcus reached for his holster—it was empty.

His gun had been there ten seconds ago.

"What the hell... My gun—"

"Marcus."

My voice was barely a whisper in the dark.

He spun around. He couldn't see my face, but he could hear the smile in my voice.

"You mentioned earlier that my heart rate data had been fluctuating abnormally, right?"

He didn't answer.

"Those fluctuations weren't a glitch. They were a transmitter. Through your tracker, using your servers, riding on your bandwidth... I was sending signals."

"You've been transmitting my messages for three long years. Without missing a single second."