2. Irrevocable
Chapter two
Irrevocable
Navigating the empty hospital corridors and surviving the agonizingly slow elevator ride to the ground floor had drained almost everything I had left.
I forced the rubber tires of the wheelchair over the exterior threshold, gritting my teeth as the wheels immediately sank into the crushed gravel.
My triceps burned with a brutal fire, utterly unaccustomed to moving my own weight after being trapped in that bed for six months.
I strained against the rims one last time, parking beneath the shadow of a massive oak tree. The freezing air of the solarium garden bit into my skin, but I barely felt it as Owen crouched in front of my wheelchair.
He wore a thick canvas jacket and scuffed work boots, his broad shoulders effectively blocking the wind whipping across the hospital courtyard.
His hazel eyes darted upward, scanning the illuminated windows of the multilevel medical wing above us to ensure no nurses or trailing husbands were looking down.
Satisfied we were isolated, he stood up and closed the distance between us, his heavy soles letting out a loud crunch against the stones.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Audrey,” he said, keeping his voice dangerously low. “Your muscle tone is completely shot. What exactly did you overhear them say?”
A wave of suffocating humiliation washed over me.
I sat before him in a thin, cheap cotton gown.
My bare legs were exposed to the biting wind, and the torn medical tape still stung the back of my right hand.
My leather purse rested awkwardly in my lap like a makeshift shield.
To hide the shudder wracking my spine, I curled my numb toes tightly underneath the metal footrests and scraped my fingernails against the rigid armrests.
I hated that the only man who had explicitly warned me about Simon was now looking at exactly what my stubbornness had cost me.
Owen’s jaw tightened. He didn’t offer a patronizing look of pity or a gentle platitude. He didn’t bring up the fact that I had let Simon fire him for trying to warn me about my illness. He just waited, his intense focus demanding the whole truth.
“He’s putting an inhibitor in my morning smoothies to paralyze me,” I managed to say, my voice thick and strained. “It’s supposed to mimic a degenerative disease.”
“I knew it wasn’t a natural regression.” Owen crossed his arms, the rough fabric of his sleeves rustling in the quiet morning. “The bastard is actually poisoning you to steal the agency.”
Hearing him state it out loud stripped away the last of my terrifying doubt. A sudden, fierce anger flared up in its place. Far off in the city, the faint wail of an ambulance siren echoed through the fog, a sharp reminder of the immediate danger.
“How much time do we have before he makes the final move?” Owen asked, leaning closer.
“He’s forcing me to sign an irrevocable proxy next Friday,” I replied, staring directly into his eyes. “I need to be walking by then.”
Owen crouched back down, bringing himself level with my face. Without asking for permission, he reached out and wrapped both hands firmly around my bare calves. The rough canvas of his jacket sleeve brushed against my exposed knee.
A harsh gust of wind swept through the courtyard, but the steadying heat of his palms anchored me to the wheelchair. He ran his thumbs down my shins, digging into the atrophied tissue to gauge how much damage had been done.
“The muscle loss is severe,” he muttered, tracing the hollow ridge beneath my kneecap. He smelled faintly of stale coffee and damp canvas. “But the underlying density is still there. He hasn’t destroyed the nerve root.”
For six suffocating months, Simon and Nina had flawlessly gaslit me. They would sit beside my bed with pitying eyes, convincing me that my own body was simply rotting from the inside out. They made me feel utterly insane.
The fact that Owen skipped the empty sympathy and moved straight into a tactical plan finally killed my creeping doubt. He believed me. The rigid tension I’d been carrying eased.
Owen withdrew his hands, resting his forearms on his thighs. The intense focus in his hazel eyes locked onto mine. “If we’re going to pull this off safely, I need to know exactly what chemical he’s giving you. Can you get me a sample of the smoothie once you’re home?”
The prospect of stealing evidence right under Simon’s nose made my palms sweat.
Simon watched me like a hawk during breakfast, monitoring every sip to ensure I ingested the full dose of his poison.
But Owen wasn’t looking at me like an invalid who needed to be saved.
He was giving me an operational assignment.
I shifted the leather purse in my lap, gripping the strap as I pictured the layout of my kitchen.
“Yes,” I said, my voice dropping to a hardened whisper. “I can dump it into a travel thermos when he turns his back.”
Owen gave a short, approving nod. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket, the bright screen casting a pale glow across his jaw in the overcast morning light. He typed out a rapid message, the soft tapping of his thumb on the glass the only sound in the courtyard.
“Good. I have a contact at a private lab,” he said, watching a delivery notification pop up on his screen. “I’ll run a rush tox screen as soon as you give it to me.”
The abstract plan suddenly became a rigid, terrifying reality. The lab report wouldn’t just prove my sanity; it would give my attorney the lethal ammunition needed to freeze Simon’s assets. Owen slipped the device back into his dark jacket, entirely committed to the plan.
“I’ll give it to you tomorrow night,” I told him, gripping the armrests of my chair. “Come to the house at midnight and use the back terrace door. I’ll leave it unlocked.”
Owen settled his shoulders, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. The movement caused the thick canvas fabric to pull tight across his broad chest. Above us, a dense bank of grey clouds rolled over the hospital roof, blocking out the pale sun.
The icy wind picked up, whipping through the gravel courtyard and stinging my bare ankles. I clenched my icy hands into tight fists, fighting to suppress the shudder rocking my shoulders.
Owen didn’t flinch at the temperature drop. He looked down at me, his jaw set tight. “If we do this, it’s going to be absolute agony, Audrey.”
“I know,” I muttered, my teeth clicking together once.
“No, you need to understand the logistics,” he said, stepping an inch closer. “Your muscles have completely atrophied. Doing PT in the dead of night, in complete silence, is going to break you down. Waking up deadened nerve endings sears like a chemical burn.”
His blunt honesty didn’t frighten me. Instead, my resolve hardened. I swallowed hard, welcoming the promise of physical torture. For six months, my suffering had been entirely out of my control—a slow, silent decay designed by my husband.
Enduring the sheer physical agony of walking again would require everything I had, but I embraced it. It would give me something real to focus on, a way to block out the humiliating image of Simon kissing Nina a few feet from my bed.
I leaned forward against the leather strap of my purse. “I can take whatever pain you throw at me.”
Owen watched my face in the dim light, silently testing my resolve.
“I don’t care if it hurts,” I continued, locking my eyes squarely onto his. “I don’t care if I tear a ligament. I need to be standing on my own two feet by next Friday when the notary arrives.”
A quiet beat of silence stretched between us, broken only by the wind rustling the dead leaves of the oak tree. Owen gave a single, curt nod, fully accepting my terms.
“Then I’ll get you on your feet,” he said.
His boots scraped harshly against the crushed stone as he walked around to the back of my wheelchair. The sudden proximity of his large frame blocked the draft hitting my spine. Steady heat radiated from his chest through the thin cotton of my hospital gown.
He grabbed the rubber push handles and spun the wheelchair in a sharp, jarring turn, pointing the chassis back toward the concrete path leading to the automatic glass doors.
“Now get back to your room before Golden Boy realizes you’re missing,” Owen instructed, his voice dropping to a low murmur right near my ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
He released the handles, stepping backward into the shadows of the courtyard. I gripped the cold metal rims, securing my numb palms against the rubber treads.
“Thank you, Owen,” I whispered, bracing my tired arms to push the wheels. “For coming back.”
The reckless momentum of my wheels skidding against polished linoleum echoed off the sterile walls of Room 412. I forced the wheelchair parallel to the hospital bed, my muscles violently quivering as I wrenched the metal brakes down. They snapped into place with a sharp, metallic click.
The frantic marathon through the labyrinth of medical corridors had utterly burned through whatever adrenaline Owen had given me. Reaching out, I gripped the chilled steel bedrails. I squeezed my eyes shut, braced myself, and heaved my weight onto the edge of the mattress.
The clinical, starchy sheets rustled beneath my weight. Sitting awkwardly on the edge, I reached down and grabbed my own right thigh.
“Come on. Move. Hide the shoes,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
Using both hands, I hauled the dead weight of my leg up, dragging my bare calf over the fabric.
I repeated the brutal motion with my left leg, collapsing fully onto my back.
Using the last bit of leverage as my leg dropped, I managed to blindly nudge my dirt-scuffed hospital slippers deep underneath the metal frame.
I snatched the edge of the heavy blanket and yanked it up to my chin. Staring blankly at the acoustic ceiling tiles, I gasped for air, a dull, restrictive burn spreading across my chest. A rapid, uncontrollable trembling racked my exhausted arms.
The sheer effort required just to climb back into this bed was terrifying. If moving three feet from a wheelchair left me gasping and shaking, Owen’s promise to have me walking unassisted by Friday felt like an impossible, mocking joke.
A wave of nausea washed away the last of my courtyard bravery. My body was an anchor, deadened and poisoned, threatening to betray me before I even had a chance to try.
Damp sweat beaded at my temples. I wiped my forehead against the rough cotton shoulder of my gown.
“Just breathe. Slow your heart rate down. He can’t see you sweat,” I panted, forcing the words out to steady my nerves.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I counted to three, then pushed the air out through parted lips. I did it again. Slowly, the frantic hammering against my ribs began to subside.
Far down the corridor, leather dress shoes struck the linoleum in a slow, measured rhythm. Footsteps.
They were moving with a brisk, arrogant entitlement that belonged entirely to my husband.
The timing terrified me. Simon had hunted down the attending physician and secured the paperwork in record time.
If I had stayed in the solarium garden with Owen for even sixty seconds longer, the trap would have sprung, catching me sitting in the hall.
I dragged the back of my hand across my neck, wiping away the last of the sweat. I let my head loll slightly to the side, sinking deep into the center of the pillow to look as sedated as Simon expected.
“Just smile. Play the part,” I whispered as the footsteps stopped right outside the door.
The brass handle clicked. I let my tense body go slack, hiding the terror behind a blank, unbothered stare.
Don’t let him see you panic.
The brass handle clicked down. I swallowed hard and held my breath, pressing my spine flat against the mattress as the wooden door swung inward.
Simon stepped over the threshold. He carried a thin manila folder in one hand and my small overnight bag in the other, his expensive leather loafers letting out a dry scuff against the sterile floor.
The bright overhead lights immediately caught the crystal face of his watch as he moved into the room, impeccably dressed and looking completely composed.
I braced myself for the trap to spring. My arms burned with a vicious, lingering ache from the frantic push back to the room.
I waited for his slate-grey eyes to drop to the crushed garden gravel clinging to the rubber treads of the wheelchair. I waited for him to notice the damp sheen of sweat cooling at my temples, or hear the frantic, restrictive hammering of my pulse against my own ribs.
He didn’t. He didn’t look at the floor, and he certainly didn’t look closely at me.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, dropping the overnight bag onto the plastic rolling tray.
The discharge paperwork rustled as he tossed the folder down beside it.
Looking over the layout of the room, he turned his attention to the wheelchair.
He reached out and casually adjusted the metal frame, pulling it an inch to the left to perfectly align it with the edge of the mattress.
His sheer arrogance provided my perfect cover. He couldn’t fathom a scenario where his failing, pathetic wife managed to move her own weight. Swallowing the dry, tight knot in my throat, I used his blindness against him. I unclenched my jaw, forcing my face to go completely slack and sleepy.
Slowly, I dragged the back of my hand across my forehead to hide the remaining sweat, letting out a soft, groggy groan. I opened my eyes, blinking a few times to play the part of someone just waking up.
“I got the paperwork sorted out, sweetheart,” Simon said.
He walked around the bed, standing over me. He wore a look of total, sickeningly perfect concern.
“The nurses are getting your prescriptions ready.”
The familiar, heavy scent of his vanilla cologne drifted down over the starchy hospital sheets. I forced a weak, pathetic smile. “Thank you, Simon. I must have dozed off while you were gone.”
He reached down, brushing a messy strand of hair away from my eyes. I kept my head still, enduring the soft slide of his manicured fingers against my skin. It took everything I had not to turn my head and bite him.
“You need the rest,” he murmured. “Are you ready to get out of this place and go home?”
‘Home’. The word felt like a joke. I was just returning to the scene of the crime to steal his poison.
“Yes,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I just want to be back in my own bed.”
Simon stepped back, offering me a pitying smile. “Let’s get you into the chair, then. Nina is waiting for us at the house.”