Not in the car.

But in bed, lying beside Eleanor in the dark, listening to her breathe.

The lavender scent of her night cream, once familiar and comforting, now made my stomach twist. Her hand rested inches from my shoulder.

I was sharing a bed with the woman trying to kill me.

And every night, she still kissed me goodnight.

The next seven days became the most dangerous performance of my life.

I had to act like the fading old patriarch she believed she was slowly destroying.

Mornings were the worst.

“Here you are, my love,” Eleanor would say, placing a thick green ginger smoothie on my desk. “Drink all of it. You need your strength.”

“Thank you, El,” I would answer, smiling while forcing my hand not to tremble.

The drink tasted bitter beneath the ginger. A chemical bitterness I had ignored for weeks.

I could not pour it down the sink. Eleanor checked everything. The trash. The pipes. The glasses. She was careful.

So I used the potted Meyer lemon tree in the corner of my study—the anniversary gift she had once given me.

Every morning, after she left, I poured the green sludge into the soil and covered it with decorative moss. Then I wiped the rim of the glass and left a little at the bottom so it looked real.

By the fourth day, the leaves began to curl.

By the sixth, they turned a sickly yellow.

The poison was strong enough to kill a six-foot tree.

While Eleanor planned my death, I planned her downfall.

Through burner phones and secret meetings, Ms. Sterling moved my empire behind legal walls. The toxicologist confirmed lethal traces of digoxin in the sample I smuggled out. I sent my DNA to a private lab, along with a hair from my brush and a sample from Reverend Marcus’s discarded coffee cup.

The hardest part was seeing Preston.

He came over and talked about his startup ideas, smiling like nothing was wrong. I stared at the son I had raised, searching for myself in his face.

Instead, I saw Marcus Thorne’s brow.

By the seventh day, I knew I was running out of time. The lemon tree was dead. Eleanor would notice soon.

I needed to force her hand.

I needed to give her what she wanted.

I needed to die.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

Eleanor was reading by the fireplace. I sat in my leather armchair, pretending to sip the poisoned smoothie.

Then I let the glass slip from my hand.

It shattered on the Persian rug, green liquid splashing everywhere.

I gasped, clutched my chest, and fell forward. I hit the floor hard, letting my shoulder take the impact. Then I went completely limp.

Eleanor did not scream.

She did not rush to help.

I heard her close her book.

Her footsteps came slowly toward me.

“Richard?” she asked calmly, as if she were asking whether I wanted tea.

I did not blink.

She nudged my ribs with the hard toe of her designer flat.

“Wake up, old man,” she whispered.

I stayed still.

Then I felt something cold beneath my nose. She was using a makeup mirror to check my breath. I held the air in my lungs until it hurt.

Satisfied, she knelt beside me and grabbed my left hand.

She began twisting off my wedding ring.

“Better take this now,” she muttered, yanking it over my knuckle hard enough to tear skin. “Fingers swell after the heart stops.”

Then she stood and made a call.

“Harper? It’s done,” Eleanor said. “He’s on the floor. Bring the blue binder from the safe. We need the medical power of attorney and the Do Not Resuscitate papers ready before anyone calls the paramedics.”