Chapter 3

I leaned back against the pillows, the IV line still taped to the back of my left hand.

"I can't find them."

The woman clearly didn't believe me, her eyes scanning the nightstand.

"Mrs. Carter, Logan was very clear. If you don't cooperate..." She paused, choosing a much crueler tone. "Your medical insurance policy will be terminated starting today. All your hospital bills will bounce."

My heart squeezed violently. That threat hit me right where it hurt most.

"I just finished chemo. My brain is foggy, and I can't remember where I put anything," I said, making my voice sound as weak as possible—which didn't require much acting. "Tell Logan to come here and ask me himself."

She opened her mouth to snap back, but suddenly, Leo sat bolt upright.

It wasn't a normal, peaceful movement.

He began to scream at the top of his lungs. He thrashed, banging his hands against the metal bedrails, slamming his forehead against the bars, and letting out piercing, screeching noises. This kind of sensory meltdown was common for kids on the spectrum. I had dealt with it for five years.

The woman took a sharp step back, her impatient expression instantly melting into sheer panic.

"I'll... I'll come back another time."

The moment the door slammed shut, Leo collapsed back onto his pillow. He closed his eyes, chest heaving as he breathed heavily.

Was he acting? I wasn't sure. And I didn't dare ask.

At 9:00 AM, my phone rang.

"Mrs. Vance? This is Marcus Cole. I got your voicemail. Do you have a moment to walk me through the details?"

His voice was incredibly calm and grounding.

I explained my situation as briefly as I could.

He asked three direct questions: the exact legal name of the company, the year of registration, and the bank account used for the transfer.

After I answered, he said, "I'll go to the Secretary of State's office myself today to pull the original corporate filings. I should have the results by tomorrow at the latest. Until then, do not sign a single paper, do not go to the courthouse, and do not meet with your husband alone."

That afternoon, he came to the hospital. He was in his early forties, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a slightly worn leather briefcase. His eyes were incredibly calm—the kind of calm that made you feel like you didn't need to hide anything from him.

He sat on the folding chair beside my bed, flipping through the screenshots of my bank statements and my marriage certificate. He didn't ask how I knew about the hidden shares.

Perhaps he figured that a late-stage cancer patient calling him at four in the morning was explanation enough.

Less than an hour after he left, the door opened again.

It was Amber Stone.

She was wearing a pastel pink maternity dress, her makeup flawless, her tiny baby bump slightly showing.

But what caught my eye was the bracelet on her wrist.

It was a brilliant, translucent green jade bracelet. A natural, dark vein ran through it, winding gracefully from one side to the other.

My brain went completely numb.

That bracelet belonged to my mother.

It was my heirloom. I had brought it with me when I got married, and it had always been kept in the jewelry box on my vanity. After we moved, I couldn't find it. I thought I had lost it during the packing.

Amber noticed me staring at her wrist. She smirked, offering no explanation whatsoever.

She slapped a document onto my nightstand.

"An emergency petition for sole custody. Logan’s lawyers already have it ready. They're filing it next week. With your medical condition—and the kid's issues—no judge in their right mind would give him to you."

She adjusted her designer handbag, smoothing down her dress as she stood up.

"Save yourself the embarrassment and don't fight it. It’s actually better for the kid anyway."

As she reached the door, she stopped and looked back, her tone breezy.

"Oh, by the way, Logan is hosting a massive charity gala next Saturday. It’s a benefit for autism awareness. A major PR campaign for the company."

She smiled like a viper.

"The main photo wall has a huge picture of your son on it. Quite a beautiful shot."

As soon as the door closed, the sharp click-clack of her stilettos faded down the hall.

At 9:00 PM, Marcus sent me a text:

"I pulled the original corporate records. Registered March 10, 2019. Two shareholders listed: Logan Carter 60%, Chloe Vance 40%. On September 14 of the same year, a share transfer was filed, removing you. The signature on that transfer is a blatant forgery—it looks nothing like your handwriting. Did you ever sign that transfer?"

I texted back two words: *Never did.*

His reply came almost instantly:

"Then we have them."