The Intensive Care Unit was a tomb of sterile white light. The air smelled of ozone and industrial disinfectant, a stark, clinical contrast to the opulence of the wedding Maximus Anderson had dragged Rose Harrison through just three days ago.

Rose lay tethered to a web of wires. Her skin was the color of curdled milk against the starched white pillowcase. She looked fragile, like a porcelain doll someone had carelessly swept off a shelf.

Maximus stood at the foot of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his trousers. His jaw was a sharp, unyielding line of granite. He wasn't mourning; he was irritated. The contract was signed, the vows exchanged, and now the prize was broken before he’d even had the chance to use it as leverage against the Harrison empire.

The heavy glass door slid open. Dr. Derek Gardner stepped in, his face drawn tight with fatigue and raw, professional disdain. He didn't bother with a greeting. He checked the monitors, his gaze lingering on the steady, rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor—the only thing proving Rose hadn't already slipped into the void.

"She’s barely holding on, Mr. Anderson," Gardner said, his voice clipped. "Her vitals have dropped again. Three liters of saline haven't touched the systemic shock."

Maximus didn't look at the doctor. He watched the erratic rise and fall of the oxygen mask over Rose’s face. "Then save her. That’s what I pay your hospital for."

Gardner let out a sharp, mocking huff, tossing his clipboard onto the bedside table. "You treat your wife like a malfunctioning luxury car. It’s disgusting."

Maximus finally turned. His eyes were cold, abyssal pools. "Mind your place, Doctor. You’re paid to manage her pulse, not my conscience. If she dies, she dies. The paperwork for the merger is already in the safe."

"She isn't a trophy to be archived, she’s a human being who tried to end her own life," Gardner snapped, leaning into Maximus’s space. "She has enough trauma in her chart to fill a library. If you don't show an ounce of human decency, she won't survive the night. And trust me, the board won't look kindly on the 'accident' that widowed you before the ink even dried on the settlement."

Outside the ICU, in the dimly lit corridor, Delilah Kelly waited. She adjusted the hem of her silk skirt, her expression a masterclass in feigned concern. She had watched the whole exchange through the observation window, her fingers itching to see the life support turned off.

She smoothed her hair, checking her reflection in the glass. She didn't need the machines to do the work for her. If Rose survived, she would ensure the fall was far more permanent next time.

Maximus stepped out into the hallway. He didn't look at Delilah. He didn't look at anyone. He just kept walking, his heavy footsteps echoing down the long, linoleum-tiled corridor, leaving the scent of stale flowers and imminent death in his wake.