THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

"Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows." – Galatians 6:7

I've always found that particular verse to be strangely comforting. It's not about forgiveness. It's about the unbreakable law of cause and effect. You plant pain, you harvest suffering. Simple.

Two days have passed since Victor Croft's "unfortunate accident." I wonder what his reaction will be if he sees me standing in front of him. Will he be as terrified as his son, haunted by the ghost of a dead woman? Or will the shock be too much, stopping his frail, treacherous heart right there? I can't have that. I won't let him die this soon, and certainly not by something as simple as a heart attack. That would be a kindness, and he deserves none.

The sun is shining today in a way that feels almost mocking, like the world is pretending everything is fine. It's a beautiful, crisp morning, completely at odds with the darkness curling in my chest as I walk through the automatic doors of Bloom Hospital.

I wanted to come the moment they wheeled him in, to see the panic fresh on his face. But that would have been reckless, a surge of emotion that could unravel my careful plans. Patience is a discipline.

The news cycle has already moved on from the Crofts' scandal. But the damage is done. Their reputation is in tatters, and from what I've seen on the business feeds, Ethan is running around his company like a headless chicken, trying to stop the bleeding as sales drop.

Good. Let him feel the pressure.

The hospital lobby is all bright lights and efficiently working. I approach the main reception desk with a solemn expressionl. The woman behind it has a kind but tired face, her fingers poised over a keyboard.

"Good morning," I say, my voice soft and deliberately a little hesitant. "Could you please tell me which room Victor Croft is in?"

She looks up, her expression shifting into a polite but firm mask. "I can check for you. May I ask your relation to the patient?"

I let my smile turn a little sad, a practiced look of worried concern. "He's my uncle. His son, Ethan, and I are cousins."

Her eyes flick over me, taking in my expensive but understated coat, wondering if I am telling the truth. I can see the doubt there. It's understandable.

"And your name, ma'am?"

"Margot," I say without missing a beat. It's the name of Ethan's second cousin, a wild girl who ran off with a motorcycle-riding drug dealer years ago and was never spoken of again. A perfect scapegoat.

The receptionist's lips tighten slightly. She's about to refuse. I can feel it.

Before she can speak, I lean in just a little, my voice dropping to a confidential tone. "My Aunt Esther is just... overwhelmed. She sent me to check on him." I gesture with the tasteful wicker basket in my hand. It's filled with beautiful, wax fruit-shimmering apples and perfect, fake pears.

Why on earth would I spend money on real food for that man?

The mention of Esther, the wife, seems to tip the scales. The receptionist's suspicion softens into a weary acceptance. People send strange relatives all the time in a crisis. She types, clicks, and nods.

"Room 407. West wing, take the elevators to the fourth floor."

"Thank you so much," I say, my smile genuine now for a completely different reason.

I turn and walk toward the elevators, the wax fruit shifting silently in the basket. The ride to the fourth floor is smooth and quiet. The hallway is hushed, the air smelling of antiseptic and quiet suffering. I find Room 407, its number stamped on the door in dull silver. I take a quick glance up and down the hall. Empty. For the past two days, my surveillance showed Esther only visits in the evening, a quick, duty-bound stop. And Ethan is too busy trying to save his crumbling empire to play the devoted son.

I turn the handle and peek inside. There he is, Victor Croft, lying in the expensive-looking private room bed, his eyes closed. A strange feeling washes over me, seeing the man who was once my father-in-law after five long years.

He looks older, frailer under the harsh hospital light, but it doesn't soften anything. For a second, the memory of his face flashes before me– the cold, displeased look he wore on the day they set fire to my parents' house.

I close the door securely behind me. The soft click of the lock is the only sound. I place the useless basket of fake fruit on the side table with a quiet thud and look down at him. Indifference, anger, and a cold thread of pity twist together inside me.

He'll be fine in a couple of days, the doctors said. Ready to go home. But that can't happen. He can't just walk out of here.

My hand slips into the deep pocket of my coat. I pull out a small syringe and a capsule bottle. Inside is a powerful, fast-acting sedative designed to induce a deep, medically-induced coma. It's not meant to kill, not today. It's meant to trap. To make him a prisoner in his own body.

My hands are steady as I fill the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles. The adrenaline makes my nerves buzz. I find the port in the IV line connected to his arm and push the plunger slowly. The pale yellow liquid disappears into the clear tube, heading straight for his bloodstream.

I sit down in the chair beside his bed, watching him. The doctor said it would take ten to fifteen minutes for the full effects. I don't have that kind of patience.

"Victor Croft," I call, my voice flat. "Wake up."

He doesn't stir, lost in a drugged, natural sleep. A smirk touches my lips. I get up, lean over the bed rail, and wrap my hand around his throat. Not enough to truly cut off his air, but enough to startle, to frighten, to drag him back from the dark. I squeeze, my grip firm.

Within seconds, his eyes fly open, wide and disoriented, and land directly on mine. Panic floods them instantly.

"Hello, father-in-law," I sneer, not letting go. His face begins to turn a mottled red. His free hand flies up, smacking weakly at my wrist, his body struggling against the sheets.

"Y-you... how..?" he gasps, trying to form a coherent sentence, his mind clearly reeling from the shock of seeing me-alive, here, furious.

"Shocking, isn't it?" I say, my voice a low, venomous whisper. I finally release my grip and step back. He collapses against the pillows, coughing, trying to drag air into his lungs. "You might think you're dreaming, but you're not. I've really come back from the dead." I add that with a dry chuckle.

"What is... how can you be here?" he stammers, his voice rough with fear and confusion.

I let out a short, cold snort. "That's not the important question you should be asking. You should be asking why I am here."

He gulps visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The fear in his eyes is a physical thing. It's everything I wanted to see. "W-why are you here?"

I lean in again, fast, pinning him to the bed with one hand on his chest. My face is inches from his. "You killed me, remember?" I hiss, the words dripping with five years of bottled rage. "You, your wife, and that scumbag son of yours killed my family and left us to burn!" My chest rises and falls. "And I am here to take everything back, piece by piece. I won't let you have a single moment of peace! This is just the start, Victor. I swear on my parents' souls, I'll ruin you all!"

His body trembles violently under my hand. With a sudden, desperate burst of strength fueled by pure terror, he shoves me back. "N-no!" he yells, the sound ragged.

I laugh, the sound cold and mocking in the sterile room. "What can you even do, Victor? Look at you. Your own wife and son see you as nothing but a stain on their precious family name. A public embarrassment. A shame they're forced to visit."

"That isn't true!" he snarls, his anger cutting through the fear. He makes a frantic lunge for the nurse call button on the bedside table. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist mid-air. I twist it back, bending his arm at a painful angle, and lean close.

"You have no power here, Victor Croft," I whisper, my voice a deadly promise. "All you're going to do now is rot in this bed."

He grits his teeth, tears of pain and rage in his eyes. "You're a monster," he chokes out.

But then, his words cut off in a sharp, wet grunt. His free hand flies to his chest, clawing at the hospital gown. His eyes bulge, and he collapses back onto the pillows, his body seizing, muscles going taut and rigid. A low, pained groan is forced from his lips with every strained breath. I step back, watching dispassionately. The medicine is taking effect, exactly as planned. My work here is done.

Watching him like this doesn't make me feel sympathy. It doesn't stir any emotion at all. It just feels... correct. Like he deserves it.

Suddenly, the sharp click-click of the door handle being tried from the outside cuts through the sound of his suffering. My heart lurches, a spike of pure panic shooting through my veins.

"Is someone in there?" a faint, familiar voice calls from the hallway. It's Esther. "It's locked."

Shit.

"Ethan, are you in there?" she calls, her voice getting louder, tinged with impatience.

On the bed, Victor gives one last, shuddering gasp. His eyes are rolling back, his body going slack. Any second now, he'll be gone, sinking into a deep deep sleep.

But right now, I have a much bigger problem. I have to get out, and Esther is right outside the door. I spin around, my eyes darting to the window. I run to it, yanking the blinds aside. It's a sheer drop four stories down to a concrete courtyard. There's no fire escape, no ledge. Jumping will be basically committing suicide.

Think, Vanessa, think!

"Hello?" Esther barks, and I hear her rattling the handle more forcefully now. "Who's in there? I'm calling security!"

Panic claws at my throat. She wasn't supposed to be here until evening!

I need to come up with a solution or else my five year long plan will be ruined and that is something I cannot afford.