Chapter 10
“We close the deal on Friday at nine,” Anthony said, his boots clicking on the floor as he paced. “Just have the papers ready.”
He listened for a moment, his fingers tapping against his thigh.
“He is not waking up,” Anthony said. “The doctor is just stalling.”
He ended the call with a quick tap on his screen and shoved the phone into his pocket.
He looked at me for a long three seconds, his breath heavy in the quiet room.
I kept my hands flat under the sheet, my fingers perfectly still despite the cold knot tightening in my chest. My own cousin was preparing to hand my father’s business to our largest competitor before my body was even cold.
Anthony turned and walked toward the exit, his heavy leather soles making a sharp sound against the floor.
Dominic listening to the rhythmic clicking of Anthony’s shoes fading down the tiled corridor.
The morning sun came through the high glass of my hospital room like a searchlight, cutting across the foot of my bed.
Veronica arrived before the nurses finished their shift change. She did not rush to my side, nor did she call out my name with the soft, trembling grief she used when Dr. Harris was in the room.
She dropped her designer handbag onto the vinyl armchair with a heavy thud. She walked over to the mirror above the small sink in the corner, her heels striking the linoleum with a sharp, impatient rhythm.
I kept my breathing shallow and even, my eyelids shut tight, holding my body in the rigid mimicry of a deep sleep.
In the mirror, Veronica unscrewed a tube of dark red lipstick. She applied it with two quick, practiced strokes, then pressed her lips together with a soft pop.
“God, this place smells like cheap bleach and old cabbage,” she muttered to her reflection.
She turned around, adjusting her heavy diamond engagement ring, twisting the band around her finger until the stone sat perfectly centered. She walked over to the bedside, her perfume, something heavy and sweet like gardenias, cutting through the sterile air.
She reached out and tapped my shoulder with one long, manicured fingernail.
“You should have signed everything over when I asked,” she said, her voice flat and cold.
She did not wait for a response she knew I could not give. She turned back toward her purse, her fingers already digging inside for her car keys.
By three in the afternoon, the room had grown colder. The door clicked open again, and Robert Gable, our family attorney, stepped inside, his leather portfolio tucked under his arm.
Veronica was already waiting for him by the window. She did not greet him.
“Did you bring the papers?” she asked.
Robert sat down in the armchair, placing his yellow legal pad on his knees. He tapped the top of his plastic pen against the cardboard backing, the steady click-click-click filling the quiet room.
“The trust accounts are locked tight, Veronica,” Robert said, his voice slow and formal. “Without Dominic’s signature on a new power of attorney, we cannot bypass the offshore holding restrictions. The bank in Zurich requires a physical signature or a certified prior agreement.”
Veronica crossed her arms, her diamond ring catching the fluorescent light. “There are older documents. Dominic signed a general power of attorney five years ago when he had that pneumonia scare. I know he kept copies.”
“A prior document might work if it specifically names you as the sole administrator in the event of incapacitation,” Robert said. “But where is it?”
“It is in the penthouse,” Veronica said. “In his study. He keeps all the historical corporate filings in the oak desk by the terrace.”
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Robert stopped tapping his pen. “If those papers are not logged with my firm by tomorrow night, the automatic Friday transition protocols will activate. We are running out of time.”
“I will find them,” Veronica said.
