My Fiancée Tried To Kill Me — So I Faked Being Paralyzed To Destroy Her
Part 1
The hospital monitors beeped in a slow rhythm that matched the terrifying stillness of my body.
I lay trapped on the mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles.
Three weeks ago, someone had wired military-grade explosives to the undercarriage of my armored SUV.
The blast flipped the three-ton vehicle over the guardrail, turning it into a twisted inferno.
I survived with broken ribs and a severe concussion.
My entire criminal syndicate was built on loyalty, yet someone in my absolute inner circle had sold me out.
The only way to figure out who wanted me dead was to make them think they had won.
I bribed my private doctor to falsify the MRI scans.
I used meditation techniques to slow my heart rate and suppress my natural reflexes.
I became a ghost inhabiting my own skin.
I never expected the traitor to be the woman who shared my bed.
Heather sat beside me right now, playing the part of the grieving fiancée to absolute perfection.
She dabbed a cool washcloth against my forehead.
“Tell me there is some experimental treatment,” she whispered to Dr. Greg.
Greg adjusted his glasses and sighed heavily.
“The blast scrambled his neural pathways,” Greg explained in a sympathetic tone.
“You must prepare yourself for the reality that this is his new normal.”
Heather pressed a perfectly manicured hand against her trembling lips.
Greg packed his leather medical bag and nodded grimly before leaving the room.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind the doctor.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
Heather slowly lowered the damp washcloth onto the side table.
The trembling in her delicate shoulders ceased completely.
The sorrowful gleam in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold sharpness.
She walked over to the mahogany cabinet and poured herself three fingers of rare scotch.
“God, you look pathetic,” Heather murmured.
Her voice was entirely stripped of its former warmth.
She walked toward my bed, the rhythmic clicking of her heels echoing off the floor.
“The great Dan,” she scoffed, leaning in close enough for me to smell her perfume.
“Tomorrow, the board grants me emergency proxy voting rights.”
“Within a month, I will have legal control over everything.”
I logged every word in my memory, fighting the urge to wrap my hands around her throat.
The door to the bedroom creaked open again.
Footsteps approached, much heavier and more confident than Heather’s.
Craig walked into my peripheral vision.
He was my oldest friend, the underboss I had elevated to the highest ranks of my empire.
“Is he asleep?”
Craig asked.
“He doesn’t sleep, Craig,” Heather replied smoothly.
“He just exists.”
Craig wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest.
They kissed with a hungry desperation that made my blood boil.
“I thought the explosives expert used too much C4,” Craig muttered against her lips.
Heather brushed a piece of lint off his lapel.
“This was my design,” she said coldly.
“I gave you his schedule, you just supplied the fireworks.”
Craig chuckled and walked over to my bedside.
“Having him alive but brain-dead makes the transition so much smoother,” Craig sneered.
“They have no idea I’m pulling the strings behind you.”
Heather crossed her arms.
“How much longer until we can put him out of his misery?”
Craig tapped my cheek mockingly.
“Give me two weeks to secure the offshore funds.”
“Then you can give him a little air bubble in the IV line.”
They laughed and walked out of the room together.
Alone in the dark, I allowed my right hand to ball into a tight fist beneath the blanket.
Three days later, Heather brought Tyler into my room.
Tyler was my senior corporate lawyer, a nervous man who sweated profusely.
“The overseas bank requires biometric authorization for a transfer of this magnitude,” Tyler stammered.
He pulled out a stack of transfer mandates.
“They need a thumbprint from Dan, witnessed by a notary.”
Heather grabbed an ink pad from the desk and walked over to my bed.
“His muscles are stiff,” she lied effortlessly to the lawyer.
“I’ll just need to guide his hand.”
She pulled my right arm from beneath the blanket.
She pressed my thumb into the dark blue ink.
If she secured my print, four hundred million dollars would vanish into Craig’s accounts.
I needed Craig in the room when I finally sprung the trap.
She moved my inked thumb toward the signature line on the parchment paper.
Tyler held the clipboard steady, waiting.
Just before my skin made contact with the document, I executed a violent, full-body spasm.
My right arm jerked forward with brutal, uncontrolled force.
I violently slapped the heavy wooden clipboard out of Tyler’s hands.
It flew across the room and smashed into a crystal decanter.
Glass and scotch rained down onto the expensive rug.
Tyler shrieked and scrambled backward.
Heather dropped my hand, her eyes wide with absolute shock.
“He seized!” she yelled.
I let my body go completely slack again, returning my chin to my chest.
The ink was smeared across the paper, rendering the mandate completely invalid.
Tyler crawled on his hands and knees, gathering the ruined documents.
“It will take at least forty-eight hours to draft a new set,” Tyler babbled.
Heather closed her eyes and took a furious breath.
“Have them back here by Thursday evening.”
As the lawyer scurried out, Heather leaned over my bed.
“Forty-eight hours,” she whispered viciously.
“That’s all you bought yourself.”
She stormed out of the room.
I waited ten minutes in the silent room.
Once I was certain the hallway was empty, I reached beneath my mattress.
My fingers found the encrypted transponder my head of security had hidden there days ago.
I had bought myself forty-eight hours of borrowed time, but as I wiped the ink from my thumb in the dark, I knew they had just signed their own death warrants.
