At midnight, in the glow of six monitors, I watched my fiancée’s real face.

She stood by the fireplace in the library beside Daniel — the man who’d stood with me at my father’s funeral and sworn brotherhood — pouring two generous glasses of my oldest single malt.

“He’s deteriorating faster than I expected,” Daniel said, swirling his glass. “He won’t last another quarter. The board is already panicking about the stock.”

Vanessa laughed, a dry sound. “Good. Let them sweat. Once the wedding’s done and I’m legally next of kin, I push for full medical guardianship. We cite neurological decline from the spinal trauma.

Then, as his proxy, we move his majority voting power into my holding company.”

She raised her glass and touched it to his.