When My Groom Planned to Inherit My Fortune by Killing Me

The click of the lock echoed in the sterile silence of the ward. I watched in horror as Zane turned the key, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The door that had been my entrance to this nightmare was now my barrier to escape.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, each word a battle for precious air.

Zane pulled a medical notepad from his coat pocket, his pen poised above the blank page. "Making observations," he replied, his voice clinically detached. "I've always wondered about the progression of acute respiratory distress in controlled environments."

He began writing, his hand moving with practiced precision. "Patient exhibits classic signs of severe asthma exacerbation. Respiratory rate approximately 30 breaths per minute. Oxygen saturation... let me check."

He reached for the pulse oximeter on the nearby cart, attaching it to my finger with the same gentle efficiency he'd once used to hold my hand during thunderstorms.

"Eighty-six percent," he noted, scribbling the number. "Markedly decreased. Fascinating response to emotional triggers."

Katalina leaned against him, her dark hair falling across his shoulder as she watched me struggle. "Is she going to die?" she asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

"Eventually," Zane replied, his eyes never leaving his notepad. "But first, I want to document the full progression. This could be valuable research data."

I tried to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. The room spun violently as I reached for the door handle. Just a few feet away. If I could just reach it...

"Going somewhere?" Zane's voice cut through my haze of panic.

I fell forward, my palms slapping against the cold floor. Each breath was a knife twisting in my chest. Still, I crawled toward the door, dragging myself forward inch by excruciating inch.

Zane stepped casually into my path, his polished shoes stopping just short of my fingers. Then, with deliberate precision, he placed his foot on my outstretched hand.

"Stay still, Victoria," he said, pressing down just enough to pin me in place. "You're interfering with my observation."

I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to cry out. Above me, Katalina's laughter floated down like poison.

"You know what's funny?" she said, tracing a finger along Zane's jawline. "We've been planning this for months. Every time you thought he was working late, he was with me."

Zane smiled up at her, then returned his clinical gaze to me. "Katalina's been very helpful in identifying your... vulnerabilities. We both agree your penthouse would make a lovely home for us after you're gone."

"After I'm gone?" I wheezed.

"Oh, Victoria." His voice dripped with false sympathy. "Did you really think someone like me would marry someone like you? The medications, the weakness..." He shook his head. "But your savings account and that lovely penthouse view? Those I could definitely appreciate."

Katalina nodded enthusiastically. "We've already picked out new furniture. Modern, sleek—none of this old-lady stuff you like."

The black spots in my vision grew larger. My hand throbbed beneath Zane's shoe, but the pain was nothing compared to the burning in my lungs.

"Your father would be so disappointed," Zane continued, his pen never stopping. "All that money invested in my career, and here I am, watching his precious daughter struggle to breathe."

A sharp knock at the door made us all freeze.

"Dr. Parker?" A deep, authoritative voice called from the hallway. "This is Chief Washington. Why is this door locked?"

Zane's expression shifted subtly—not fear, but annoyance at the interruption. He gave Katalina a quick nod before cracking the door just wide enough to speak through.

"Chief Washington," he greeted, his voice instantly transformed into that of a concerned physician. "I'm glad you're here. We've had a small situation."

I opened my mouth to scream, to call for help, but Zane's hand clamped over my mouth with lightning speed.

"There's been a minor bio-chemical spill," he continued smoothly. "Nothing serious, but standard quarantine protocol requires isolation until decontamination can be completed."

There was a pause from the hallway. "What kind of spill?"

"Merely a research sample that was mishandled," Zane replied, his voice carrying the easy authority of someone accustomed to being believed. "The containment protocols worked perfectly, but we need to follow procedure nonetheless."

Another pause. I struggled against Zane's grip, but my strength was fading with each labored breath.

"I'll need to document this," Chief Washington said finally.

"Of course," Zane nodded. "I've already begun the paperwork. But please, don't enter just yet—for your own safety."

As footsteps retreated down the hallway, Zane closed the door and turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with cold triumph.

"Now," he said, releasing my mouth and returning to his notepad, "where were we?"