The part of my mind that had built an empire from nothing snapped back into place.
“Can you copy this?” I asked.
“Already done.”
Frank placed a black flash drive into my hand.
I sat in my car in the alley for a long time before calling my attorney, Ms. Whitaker, the most ruthless litigator I knew.
“Open a confidential file,” I said. “Freeze every offshore account. Prepare to lock every property and suspend trust access. And find me a private toxicologist. I need a discreet test for digoxin.”
“What’s our timeline?” she asked.
“Short,” I rasped. “I have to go home and drink poison.”
The horror did not fully hit me in the basement.
It hit me that night, lying beside Margaret in the dark, listening to her breathe.
The lavender scent of her night cream, once the smell of home, now made my stomach twist. I stared at the ceiling, aware of how close her hand was to my throat.
I was sleeping beside an executioner who kissed me goodnight.
The next seven days became a private psychological war.
Every morning, Margaret brought the green smoothie to my office.
“Here you go, my love,” she would say. “Drink all of it. You need your strength.”
