She complied silently, placing the device in my good hand before retreating from the room. I squinted against the harsh screen glare, ignoring a barrage of empty check-in texts from hospital administrators, and dialed Arthur Miller. He was a lethal senior partner at a top-tier Manhattan firm, specializing in high-net-worth divorces. He picked up on the second ring.
“Arthur. It’s Elena,” I enunciated every syllable, my voice soaked in liquid nitrogen. “Draft a divorce settlement. Three non-negotiable terms. One: I absorb all marital assets. He’s been funneling illegal kickbacks from medical device reps into offshore accounts. Use that trail to leverage him. Two: Preston leaves with nothing. Three: I want his medical license permanently revoked. Total professional annihilation.”
Arthur was a shark who thrived on blood in the water. He heard the physical weakness in my lungs, but he also heard the scorched-earth resolve in my tone. “Consider it done, Dr. Vance. I’ll file the asset freeze petitions before sunrise. The documents will be on your nightstand by dawn.”
I dropped the phone. Enduring the blinding pain of my abdominal sutures, I reached into the hidden pocket of my hospital bag and retrieved a tiny digital voice recorder. In the chaotic ER, carrying a recorder to protect against combative patients was second nature. When I was rolled into the delivery room, this device had been tucked into my gown.
I hit play.
