Chapter 1 - THE FLATLINE GAMBIT
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"Pull the plug if she twitches, Julian. We didn't drug her coffee just to watch her wake up on payday."
Elena leaned down until her fake eyelashes practically grazed Victoria’s cheek, her diamond choker catching the pale fluorescent glare of ICU Room 402. The scent of her expensive French perfume smelled like burnt sugar and betrayal.
Julian checked his gold Rolex, completely unfazed. "Keep your voice down. The night nurse does rounds every forty minutes."
"I don't give a damn about the nurse," Elena hissed, tapping her manicured nails against the stainless-steel bed rail. "Are you absolutely sure she’s brain-dead, babe? Because if she opens her eyes before the offshore wire clears, we're both doing twenty to life in federal prison."
Julian placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Elena’s bare shoulder, running a thumb across her collarbone. "She’s been in a chemical coma for seven straight days. Her vitals are tanking. She’s not waking up, Elena. Tomorrow morning at nine, probate rubber-stamps my power of attorney. Every single dime of the Vance estate belongs to us."
Elena smirked, leaning back and admiring her reflection in the dark window. "Good. Because sitting in this hospital room makes my skin crawl. Let's get out of here, honey. We've got an empire to spend."
Julian grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the visitor's chair. "Car's downstairs. Champagne's on ice at the penthouse."
They stepped out into the hallway, the heavy fire door clicking shut behind them.
Silence smothered the room.
One beat. Two beats.
Victoria’s eyes snapped wide open.
Her pupils narrowed into lethal slits. There was no grogginess, no hesitation, no fear—only raw, glacial wrath. She reached up with steady fingers, ripped the oxygen cannula out of her nose, and tossed it onto the tile floor.
"You think you can play me?" Victoria whispered into the shadows, her voice raspy from disuse but dripping with pure venom.
She slid her legs over the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet hit the cold floor without a sound. Beneath the thin mattress lining, right where she had bribed an orderly to slip it three days ago, sat a burner phone and a black leather key fob.
She tapped the screen. The encrypted screen flashed green.
"Let’s see how smug you look when every card declines before your elevator hits the garage."
She entered a four-digit passcode. Then her thumb hovered over the red execute button.
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On the third floor below, the ICU power grid suddenly flickered out.
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