The air in the hospital room seemed to freeze, carrying the weight of revelation and betrayal. Greg’s face drained of color, his confident facade crumbling under the stark reality of his predicament. I watched as the gears turned in his mind, trying to piece together a way out of the mess he’d crafted with his own malice and impatience.
I hadn’t imagined this scenario, not entirely. My suspicion of Greg had grown over time, like a creeping vine that slowly choked a once vibrant tree. There were always subtle signs: the way his eyes lingered too long on life insurance papers, the enthusiasm he showed for financial planning when discussing scenarios that involved my untimely demise. But I never thought he would actually push me down the stairs — until he did.
I felt a cold anger simmer inside me, one that was not new but had been nurtured by years of subtle manipulation and emotional bruises. Greg had always been good with words, using them as knives to carve away at my confidence and independence, but now, his words were his undoing.
