“I only have a year left to live. Marry me, have a son for me – and your family will never have money problems again,”” said the wealthy landlord.

Not to die.

To win.

And Emily understood something in her bones: he wouldn’t simply replace her. He could, sure. He had money. He could find someone else desperate enough.

But she wasn’t just any wife in his plan. She was the one he had already invested in, the one he had already married, the one whose body he had already tried to turn into his solution. Men like Thomas didn’t like sunk costs walking away.

They tried to drag them back.

Two days later, Thomas’s attorney sent another message.

This one was colder.

It listed what Thomas had already “done” for the Carter family.

Payments.

Arrangements.

Promises.

It framed them as gifts, and then—without saying it outright—implied they could be reversed.

Emily read it and felt her stomach drop.

The next morning, Ruth’s clinic called.

A billing administrator, polite and firm, explained that a payment plan had been “paused pending confirmation.”

Ruth’s hands shook as she held the phone.

Emily took it from her gently. “Hi,” Emily said, voice tight. “What confirmation?”

The administrator hesitated. “We were told there was a change in financial responsibility,” she said. “We need updated information.”

Emily’s jaw clenched. “We’ll handle it,” she said. She hung up and stared at the wall, her breath shallow.

Ruth looked at her with panic-struck eyes. “Emily—”

Emily lifted a hand. “I know,” she said.

The fear tried to surge—He’s going to kill us financially.

But anger surged right alongside it—He’s trying to force me back using my mother’s medication.

Emily grabbed her coat. “We’re going to the clinic,” she said.

Ruth blinked. “What?”

“We’re going to talk to them in person,” Emily said. “And we’re going to ask for copies of everything they have on him.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “Can we do that?”

Emily’s voice was quiet and determined. “We can ask,” she said. “And we can make it clear we’re being coerced.”

At the clinic, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Emily stood at the counter, hands clenched, and asked to speak to someone in records.

A manager came out—mid-fifties, tired eyes, a practiced smile.

“How can I help?” she asked.

Emily swallowed. She kept it simple, because complicated stories often gave people an excuse to step back.

“I need to verify a report,” Emily said. “And I need to document something. My husband claimed he was terminally ill to get me to marry him.”

The manager’s smile faded.

Ruth stood beside Emily, swaying slightly, and Emily’s heart squeezed. She wished she could carry this burden alone.

The manager lowered her voice. “We can’t discuss patient details without authorization,” she said carefully.

Emily nodded. “I understand,” she said. “But I’m telling you there’s coercion involved. And my attorney is requesting records. I’m also documenting that he used a false medical claim to manipulate a marriage.”

The manager’s eyes flicked over Emily’s face, then Ruth’s. Something shifted—recognition of danger, of imbalance.

“I can’t give you records today,” she said. “But if your attorney sends the correct request, we will respond.”

Emily nodded, relieved she hadn’t been dismissed outright. “We’ll do that,” she said.

They left, Ruth quiet in the passenger seat.

When they got home, Emily called Naomi back and relayed the update.