My Husband Killed For My Millions

I woke up as a cheap, electric e-moped.

It was the third day of my "deep coma" following a catastrophic car accident. My husband, Bradley, had just bought this piece of junk. We were in a quiet, upscale neighborhood I didn’t recognize. A woman—younger, blonde, and very pregnant—was clinging to his arm with a sickly sweet pout, asking when "the old hag" was finally going to kick the bucket.

Bradley let out a cold, sharp laugh as he rubbed the woman’s belly. "The doctors say she’s got a week, tops. Maybe less if I push for it."