I flatlined after giving birth to triplets. While I was unconscious in the ICU, my CEO husband signed our divorce papers in the hospital hallway.

My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. “Grant wouldn’t…”

“He did.” The man turned the tablet toward me. Grant’s signature stared back, bold, arrogant, familiar. My own name appeared beneath it—printed, authorized, executed. The date, the time—everything precise. Everything final.

“You are no longer covered under Mr. Holloway’s insurance,” he went on, oblivious to the world collapsing around me. “Hospital administration has reassigned your room. Your children’s medical decisions are currently under review pending custody and financial clarification.”

My fingers curled into the thin sheets, clutching them until my knuckles turned white. “Those are my children. Is he…”

“That’s being determined.”