The night before I was supposed to give birth, I overheard my husband offering my doctor five hundred thousand dollars to make sure I never left the delivery room alive.
I was eight months and three weeks pregnant.
I was lying perfectly still in my hospital bed.
And the man I had loved for seven years was whispering from the sitting room.
“Make it look like a complication. Infect her during delivery, let her die, and the money is yours.”
For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
Then Dr. Marcus Hale answered quietly.
“Five hundred thousand?”
My husband, Daniel, chuckled.
“You’ll get half tomorrow. The rest after the funeral.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
Daniel believed I was unconscious.
He believed the sedative he had slipped into my tea had worked.
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What he did not know was that I had seen him crush the pill.
