I kept my eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow like the morphine had swallowed me whole. The room smelled like antiseptic and old fear. My husband, Ethan Carter, stood on the right side of my bed in his tailored coat, looking like a man practicing grief in a mirror. On the left was Sloane, the “coworker” he swore was harmless—perfect hair, glossy lips, a smile too calm for a hospital room.

Ethan leaned down until his mouth was inches from my ear. “When she’s gone,” he whispered, “everything is OURS.”

Sloane giggled like this was a dinner reservation. “I can’t wait, baby.”

My stomach lurched, but I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I let them think I was gone already.

The nurse checking my IV—her badge read Nora Patel—paused mid-adjustment. Her eyes flashed from them to me, then back again. “She can hear everything you’re saying,” she said, voice low but sharp.

Ethan straightened so fast he nearly knocked the bedside table. “What?” he snapped, too loud, too defensive.

Nora didn’t flinch. “Some patients are aware even when sedated. It happens. I suggest you choose your words carefully.”

Sloane’s smile cracked for a second, then returned like a mask snapped back into place. “We were just—he’s stressed,” she purred, touching Ethan’s sleeve.

Ethan looked down at me, studying my face, hunting for proof. I kept my expression slack, but inside my mind was screaming: They’re not even trying to hide it.

If you were Ava, what would you do next—press charges immediately, or let Ethan think he still has a chance so he exposes everyone involved? Drop your take in the comments, because the next move decides everything.