PART 1
That afternoon, Julian brazenly ushered his mistress, Serena, into my master bedroom.
Introduced to the nursing staff as an “interior designer assessing renovations,” her cheap, overwhelming floral perfume cutting through my sterile medical supplies told the true story.
“It feels like a mausoleum in here, Julian,” Serena cooed gratingly, pulling a metal measuring tape from her bag.
Julian stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck right in front of my eyes.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart. It’s going to be your house soon.”
I lay perfectly still. To them, I was a lifeless piece of broken furniture.
Serena stepped right up to my medical mattress.
Without a second thought, she leaned her torso directly over my frail, paralyzed body, reaching across my chest to hook the lip of the measuring tape to the window frame.
Snap. Click.
The metallic sound echoed violently right above my struggling chest.
She was measuring windows for her future life, using my impending corpse as a step-stool.
In that horrifying moment, the last remnants of my sorrow evaporated into an icy, terrifying fury.
You think I am helpless?
I am an architect, and I know exactly how to detonate the load-bearing pillars of your life.
As they giggled their way out the door, my eyes snapped open.
The monitor above my face was waiting.
Utilizing my eye-tracking software, I blinked to open an encrypted communication portal connecting directly to my estate lawyer.
The wheels of absolute destruction were finally in motion.
But a dark, nagging fear gripped my chest, causing the ventilator to adjust its pressure frantically.
Would I live long enough to sign the final blueprints of their ruin?
