The scent of rosemary, roasted prime rib, and copper filled the dining room. I pressed my palm hard against my chest, feeling the hot, dark stain expanding through my cream wool cardigan.

I woke up thirty-six hours later in the Intensive Care Unit of Memorial Sloan Kettering.

The low, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor was the only sound in the room. An IV was hooked into my left arm, pumping blood units and pain medication into my system. My chest was heavily bandaged, bound tightly with surgical tape.

Beside my bed sat a woman in a sharp gray pantsuit, reading through a stack of legal briefs on an iPad.

"You're awake," Eleanor Vance said quietly, setting the tablet down.

Eleanor was not just my attorney; she was my late father’s former corporate partner and the trustee of the family estate. Three months ago, when I received my terminal diagnosis, Eleanor was the only person I called.

"How long was I out?" I asked, my throat feeling like sandpaper.

"A day and a half. They repaired the subclavian vein tore by your port, gave you three units of blood, and stabilized your vitals," Eleanor said, handing me a small cup of ice chips. "Dr. Thorne said if you had arrived five minutes later, you would have bled out on that carpet."

"Mark?"

Eleanor let out a cold, sharp laugh. "He’s been pacing the lobby downstairs for thirty-six hours. He brought three different corporate lawyers with him, trying to assert power of attorney to get access to your medical chart and your financial accounts."

"Did you show them the filings?"

"I did better," Eleanor smiled, though her eyes remained ice cold. "I had hospital security issue a permanent restraining order based on the medical report. The paramedics documented that your injury was caused by blunt force trauma consistent with an assault. The police have already opened a domestic violence inquiry."

I closed my eyes, feeling a heavy weight lift off my chest.

"What about the estate?" I asked.

"Everything is executed, Clara," Eleanor said smoothly. "The paperwork you signed last week cleared probate on Friday. The house on Elmridge Court—the one Mark assumed was titled under his corporate LLC—was actually held entirely by your family's real estate trust. Because he defaulted on the lease payments to the trust six months ago, we executed an emergency eviction notice yesterday."

I looked at Eleanor. "Yesterday? On Christmas Day?"

"At precisely 8:00 AM," Eleanor replied without a shred of remorse. "Sheriff deputies served the notice while Mark was still at the hospital. He has forty-eight hours to vacate the premises. All accounts associated with the house, including the power, gas, and credit lines you backed, have been frozen."

A soft knock sounded at the ICU door. A nurse peeked her head in.

"Ms. Clara? There’s a seventeen-year-old boy outside. He’s been sitting on the floor in the hallway since yesterday morning. He refuses to eat or leave. He says his name is Lucas."

Eleanor looked at me. "I can have security remove him."