The janitor hesitates at the door, her gloved hand still holding the mop. She’s in her late forties, with streaks of gray in her tied-back hair and tired eyes that have seen too much. Her name tag reads “Marta.” She steps in cautiously, her sneakers squeaking on the polished tile floor.
“I’m listening,” she says, her voice low but sharp with curiosity. “What do you want me to do?”
Emily struggles to sit up. Her body is weak, but the fury burning inside her lends her strength. She gestures to the chair beside the bed, and Marta approaches, still gripping the mop like a weapon.
“My name is Emily Carter. I own this place, or at least I did, until I trusted the wrong man,” Emily whispers hoarsely. “That man—Paul—he married me for money. He’s been poisoning me slowly. I don’t have three days left because of illness. I have three days because he planned it that way.”
Marta’s eyes widen. She lowers the mop slowly.
“You’re serious?”
“I swear on everything. And I’m not asking you to do anything illegal,” Emily says, her voice growing steadier. “But I need help. I need eyes and ears. I need someone Paul would never suspect.”
Marta exhales and steps closer. “What do you want me to do?”
Emily’s eyes sharpen. “First, get me the nurse’s walkie-talkie from the station desk. I know where they keep the backups. There’s one in the second drawer, labeled ‘emergency comms.’ Then, I need you to watch Paul. Follow him if you have to. Tell me who he meets, what he says. Every move. Can you do that?”
Marta studies her for a long second, then nods. “I’ve done worse for less.”
Within ten minutes, Marta returns, her cleaning cart now loaded with more than disinfectant and towels. Hidden beneath a folded sheet is the walkie-talkie, which she slips to Emily. Emily hides it under her pillow and tests the static with a tap of her thumb. It crackles to life.
“Good,” she says. “Now let’s see what kind of rat my dear husband really is.”
That night, Marta follows Paul as he leaves the hospital. She walks with purpose, pushing her cart just behind him, then waits outside as he climbs into a sleek black BMW and drives away. She’s clever — she’s already borrowed a nurse’s coat and left her own car at the far end of the lot. She tails him quietly through the suburbs until he pulls into a driveway. Not their mansion, but a modern townhome with tinted windows.
Marta watches from her car, engine off.
Ten minutes later, the front door opens, and a woman appears. Blonde, maybe early thirties, tall, elegant in a silk robe. She kisses Paul. Not the kiss of friends or family. It’s possessive. Familiar.
Marta snaps a photo with her phone, then drives away.
The next morning, she returns to Emily’s room and shows her the image.
Emily stares at it, her face pale, jaw clenched. “Her name is Vanessa. She was my assistant. I promoted her six months ago. I trusted her.”
Marta shakes her head. “She’s not just your assistant anymore.”
Emily’s hand trembles as she adjusts the walkie-talkie. “Then it’s time we remind Paul who he’s dealing with.”
Over the next day, Emily begins orchestrating a plan.
She uses the walkie-talkie to reach Dr. Harris in secret. He’s shocked to hear her voice.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m awake,” she whispers. “Especially not Paul. Just listen…”
She instructs him to falsify her official condition report — not to lie about the severity, but to add a mysterious improvement in liver function. Enough to suggest that she might, against the odds, recover.
That same afternoon, she sends Marta to deliver an envelope to her lawyer. Inside: updated power of attorney forms and a letter revoking Paul’s access to her accounts. She signs it with trembling fingers, sweat beading on her forehead.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Marta asks gently. “You don’t have much time.”
“I’m not dying like this. And I’m not dying without justice.”
By the second evening, Emily’s health visibly deteriorates. Her skin has turned sallow, her breath shorter. But her mind remains razor sharp.
She asks Marta to install a hidden camera in the corner of the room — disguised in a box of tissues. The feed goes straight to her tablet.
That night, Paul returns. His face is full of practiced grief. He strokes her hair, whispers things like “You’re so brave,” and “You don’t deserve this.”
Then he pulls out his phone.
“She’s still out,” he says to someone. “But the doctors said her vitals are dropping. We’re almost there. Just a few more hours.”
Emily watches the whole thing from the tablet on her lap, tucked under her blanket.
Paul leans closer, kisses her forehead, then leaves.
Emily doesn’t cry. She stares into the screen like a general studying a battlefield.
The third day begins.
Emily wakes gasping, pain shooting through her abdomen. The liver is failing fast. Dr. Harris visits, clearly alarmed.
“Emily, your time’s almost up. You need to rest. Let me ease the pain—”
“No,” she snaps. “Not until I finish this.”
She asks him to set up a press conference in the hospital lobby, citing a sudden improvement in her condition — a medical miracle. The media eats it up.
Within hours, reporters swarm the entrance. Emily demands Paul’s presence at her bedside, citing “emotional support.”
He arrives in record time.
Marta, hiding just outside the door, cues up the hidden camera recording to the hospital room’s big screen — the one usually used for monitoring vitals. Paul doesn’t notice at first. He walks in with flowers, sees Emily sitting upright, and freezes.
“You… you’re awake?” he stammers.
“Surprised?” Emily says, her voice gravelly but steady. “I was supposed to die, right?”
Paul’s smile falters. “No, I—what are you saying?”
Marta enters with a remote and clicks it.
The screen flashes to life. Paul’s conversation from the night before plays — every word, every sickening promise, his voice echoing through the room.
Outside, Dr. Harris and several nurses have gathered. Behind them, two uniformed officers.
“Emily—” Paul starts, stepping back.
“Don’t,” she says coldly. “I’m done listening to you.”
The officers enter.
“Mr. Carter, you’re under arrest for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit fraud.”
Paul’s face collapses into panic. “Wait—no—this is a mistake—”
Vanessa appears in the hallway, stunned. She tries to run, but Marta blocks her with the mop.
“Not so fast, sweetie.”
As Paul is escorted out in handcuffs, Emily finally exhales. Her body slumps back into the pillows, exhausted. Marta rushes to her side, tears in her eyes.
“You did it,” she whispers. “You really did it.”
Emily turns her head, a faint smile breaking across her pale face. “We did it.”
Dr. Harris approaches, checking her vitals. He frowns. “You’ve stabilized. Slightly. I don’t know how or why, but something’s changed.”
Emily closes her eyes.
“Maybe it’s not my time yet,” she murmurs.
The next day, Emily signs the deed for a small villa to Marta — oceanfront, fully paid. Along with it, she transfers a generous sum into her account.
“No one’s ever believed in me like you did,” she says. “You kept me alive long enough to save myself.”
Marta hugs her gently, speechless.
As the sun sets outside the window, Emily watches the gold spill across the sky. The poison in her veins still lingers, but so does her will to live. Paul’s betrayal nearly ended her, but she refused to let a liar write her ending.
She may not have much time, but now — it’s hers.
