Cancel her rehab. She won’t need legs where she’s going.” My husband whispered those words while stroking my hair in the ICU, then promised his mistress my mansion before my funeral. But when my heart monitor suddenly jumped, I stayed perfectly still, because Richard didn’t know I could hear every word... or that I was about to start recording him.

The federal grand jury indictment against Richard Allen was handed down on a crisp Monday morning two weeks later.

The charges spanned forty-two pages: attempted murder, mail fraud, wire fraud, conspiracy, forgery of federal military disability documents, and unlawful seizure of veteran assets. Legal analysts on cable news networks called it one of the most meticulously planned and ruthlessly executed domestic assassination plots in recent Illinois history.

As for the estate, every single asset Richard had attempted to loot was legally restored to my name through a summary judgment issued by Judge Sterling.

I spent that Saturday morning sitting at the antique walnut desk in my home office, reviewing the final forensic accounting audit prepared by Ryan and his financial team.

The numbers were staggering. Over the course of our five-year marriage, Richard had systematically siphoned nearly eight hundred thousand dollars from my military pension, deployment savings, and private investments, funneling the funds into high-risk cryptocurrency schemes, luxury cars for himself, and funding Khloe’s lavish lifestyle.

My phone rang on the desk.

The caller ID displayed a restricted federal extension: U.S. Penitentiary - Thomson Administrative Maximum Facility.

I pressed accept.

"Colonel Allen?" a flat, robotic automated voice announced. "You have a collect call from an inmate at a federal correctional institution. To accept, press one."

I pressed one.

A heavy, breathless silence stretched across the line for several seconds. Then, a voice came through—thin, raspy, defeated, and utterly unrecognizable as the confident man who had whispered death threats in my hospital room.

"Isabelle...?" Richard whispered.

I didn't say a word. I leaned back in my leather chair, letting the receiver rest lightly against my ear.

"Please," Richard sobbed softly, the sound pathetic and hollow against the digital hum of the prison switchboard. "Lawrence... my lawyer says I’m looking at consecutive life sentences without parole. They put me in twenty-three-hour administrative segregation. It’s freezing in here, Isabelle. There are no windows. Please... talk to the U.S. Attorney. Tell them you'll sign a character statement. We were married. You loved me once."

I let out a slow, steady breath, listening to the desperate, ruined man at the other end of the line.

"Richard," I said, my voice calm, even, and entirely devoid of emotion. "When you stood over my hospital bed, whispering about pulling my plug before Christmas... did you think about how cold it was going to be?"

"Isabelle, please! I was stupid! I was greedy! I’ll give you everything back!"

"You already have," I replied softly. "You gave me the truth. You reminded me exactly who I am."

"Don't hang up! Isabelle—!"

I pressed the red end-call button on my desk phone.