Leave.”

Through the glass of the ICU window, I watched Adrian’s mask slip. The charming, wounded husband vanished, replaced by the cornered, venomous man I knew intimately.

He stepped close to the glass, his eyes locking onto mine, his face contorted with malice. “You will regret this,” he hissed. Muffled, but the intent was crystal clear.

For the first time since I’d woken up, I smiled. Not a smile of joy. The grim, satisfied curve of a woman watching a trap spring shut.

An hour later, my parents stormed the lobby. They bypassed concern entirely and went straight to demands, screaming at reception that I needed to call the bank immediately and restore their guarantee.

When security escorted them out, my mother left a rambling, sobbing voicemail about the lost deposit and her ruined golden years. My father, lacking her flair for theatrics, sent a text.