Inside, Ethan lowered the clipboard. He looked up.
His eyes found mine through the tiny window.
Shock.
Fear.
Fury.
He barked an order, and one of the men ran for the door.
The nurse yanked my arm. “We have to go. Now!”
We bolted down the hallway, our footsteps echoing off the tile. Behind us, I heard someone shout my name—Ethan’s voice, sharp and nothing like the man I knew. We burst through a stairwell door. The nurse—her badge read Carla—locked it behind us, chest heaving.
“Your husband is not the man you think he is,” she whispered.
And I knew she was right.
We raced down the stairwell and slipped into a dim maintenance hallway. I tried to make sense of the past few weeks—Ethan’s late nights, the strange bank deposits, the way he panicked whenever his phone buzzed. I thought he was stressed.
But he had been planning this.
“For what?” I whispered. “What does he want from me?”
“Leverage,” Carla said. “Or silence.”
We reached a service exit—just as a figure appeared at the other end.
Ethan.
His face wasn’t confused or relieved. It was cold.
“Emily,” he said calmly. “Come here. I can explain.”
Carla stepped in front of me. “Stay back.”