My Husband Tried To Pull The Plug On My Life For $2m. He Didn’t Realize I Could Hear Him Whispering His Plan. Now I’m Awake, And I’m Coming For Everything.
The Storm in the Room
The atmosphere in the room grew quiet, but it was not a peaceful silence. It was the heavy, charged stillness before a storm, as thick as the air under dark clouds before lightning strikes. After Doctor Evans’s back disappeared through the door, the tension in the room multiplied.
I was still lying weakly. Half my life seemingly dragged back from the grave, while the other half fought to stay grounded in the real world. Nurse Jenny stood guard by my bed, her posture defensive. She wasn’t just a nurse to me right now; she was the last fortress protecting me from the two predators standing near the foot of my bed: Rick and his stepmother, Brenda.
Yes, Brenda was Rick’s stepmother, the woman who had married his father for his money and raised Rick to worship material wealth. They both stared at me. Rick, with a restlessness he couldn’t hide, his foot tapping an anxious, irritating rhythm on the hospital’s vinyl floor. His eyes darted around the room, occasionally glancing toward the door where Michael had left, then back to me with an unreadable expression—a mix of fear and deep-seated hatred.
“What’s taking Doctor Evans so long?” Rick grumbled, breaking the silence. His voice sounded hoarse. He glanced at his fake Rolex, a high-end replica he used to impress his business clients.
“He just went to the pharmacy. Should have been five minutes.”
“The central pharmacy might be busy, sir. There were a lot of accident victims from the storm outside,” Nurse Jenny answered calmly, though I could see her hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides. Jenny knew something was wrong. Jenny knew Michael hadn’t gone to the pharmacy.
I tried to regulate my breathing behind the oxygen mask. Every inhale felt like sucking in razor blades, sharp and painful, but the pain kept me conscious. My mind drifted to the phone, an old beat-up burner phone I had hidden three months ago.
I had already sensed Rick’s rotten behavior back then. Money in our joint account started disappearing. Then the bruises began to appear on my body, always in places covered by clothing. Rick was clever in his abuse. He never hit my face because, as a doctor, I had to see patients. He hit my upper arms, thighs, or stomach—parts I could hide beneath my proud white coat.
I had bought that used phone from a small shop on the outskirts of Chicago using cash so it couldn’t be traced. That’s where I stored everything: recordings of our fights, photos of the bruises I took secretly in the hospital bathroom, and a video of Rick’s confession when he was drunk. A video where he bragged about his insurance plan. I hid it in locker 303, a locker in the old, rarely used residents’ lounge because the lock was jammed and it was in a damp corner. Only I knew how to open it with a specific jolt.
The Confrontation
“I’m stepping out for a minute,” Rick said suddenly, walking toward the door.
My heart felt like it stopped. Did he know? Could he guess? Rick was cunning. His criminal instincts were sharp. If he followed Michael and found he wasn’t at the pharmacy, he would know I had leaked something. He could become desperate.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Henderson,” Jenny’s voice was sharp, halting Rick in his tracks. “Dr. Evans instructed that you remain here. We may need immediate family consent if Mrs. Henderson’s condition declines again.”
Rick turned, his face flushed red. “I need a smoke. I’m stressed seeing my wife like this. Who are you to stop me? You’re just a nurse.”
“I’m following the orders of the attending physician,” Jenny retorted, equally fierce. “And they’re sterilizing the corridor right now due to an infectious patient transfer. You can’t go out for the next 10 minutes.”
A lie. Jenny was lying to hold him here. I wanted to thank her, but I could only blink weakly.
Brenda snorted. She walked closer to my bed. The cloying scent of her gardenia perfume made my stomach turn. She looked down at me with a condescending glare, as if I were dirt on her expensive shoes.
“You see what you’ve done, Eleanor,” she hissed, her voice low but clear enough for me to hear. “You’re inconveniencing everyone. If you were a good wife, you wouldn’t be putting your husband through this stress. You should have just died peacefully.”
Tears of rage welled in the corners of my eyes. This woman—she knew how depraved her stepson was, but she turned a blind eye for the monthly allowance Rick gave her, money he had stolen from my savings.
Suddenly, Rick seemed to realize something. His eyes widened. He looked at me, then at the door. His face turned deathly pale. Maybe he remembered the time I caught him rummaging through my purse looking for evidence. Maybe he realized my whisper wasn’t just a complaint of pain.
“Move!” Rick shoved Jenny’s shoulder forcefully, causing my friend to stumble into a medicine cart. The clash of metal broke the tension.
“Sir, don’t get physical!” Jenny shouted.
“You’re hiding something!” Rick yelled, his panic peaking. He no longer cared about the grieving husband act. “Evans isn’t at the pharmacy, is he? What did you tell him, Eleanor? What?”
Rick lunged toward me, his large hands gripping the bed rail. His enraged face was just inches from mine. The smell of cigarettes and cold sweat emanated from him. I saw the murderer in his eyes. He wanted to choke me. He wanted to silence me forever before the police arrived.
“Answer me!” he roared, shaking the bed rail. My heart monitor shrieked as my heart rate skyrocketed. Beep, beep, beep, beep.
“Security!” Jenny screamed at the top of her lungs, pressing the emergency button on the wall.
Rick panicked. He knew his time was up. He let go of the bed rail and ran for the exit. He had to stop whatever Michael was doing. He had to erase the evidence.
