My mother-in-law tried to suffocate me in the ICU after a “suspicious” fall left me trapped inside a full-body cast. She thought I couldn’t fight back—but the tiny button hidden beneath my thumb had already summoned the people who could expose everything she and her son had done.

The wheels of justice moved fast, but the wheels of corporate retaliation moved even faster.

Two weeks after the incident in the ICU, Hannah was transferred from the acute care trauma ward to the St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Institute. Her full-body cast was replaced by a rigid torso brace and lightweight leg splints, allowing her to begin the grueling process of physical therapy.

Every morning began at 6:00 AM. The pain was an unrelenting monster. Re-learning how to engage her core muscles felt like tearing broken glass through her abdomen. But Hannah never complained. She gritted her teeth, pulled herself up using the parallel bars, and pushed her body past its absolute limits, supported by her dedicated physical therapist, Elena.

“Slowly, Hannah,” Elena encouraged, holding Hannah’s waist as she took a shaky, agonizing step forward. “Focus on your breathing. You’re doing incredible.”

“I need... to go... faster,” Hannah panted, sweat soaking her forehead, her legs trembling under her weight.

“You’re three weeks ahead of schedule already,” Elena smiled warmly. “Don't break yourself trying to beat the clock.”

While Hannah rebuilt her body, the war for the Prescott empire raged outside the hospital walls.

Without Adrian or Vivian at the helm, Prescott Global Capital began to tear itself apart. The news of the murder charges had leaked to the press, causing the company’s stock to plunge sixty percent in forty-eight hours. Creditors were swarming the Prescott manor, demanding repayment on tens of millions in defaulted loans.

Then came the second wave of defense strategy from Vivian’s high-priced legal team, led by Arthur Vance—a ruthless, silver-haired defense attorney known for destroying witnesses on the stand.

On a rainy Thursday afternoon, Sarah Lin entered Hannah’s private rehab room, her face pale and drawn.

“They’re playing dirty, Hannah,” Sarah said, setting a tablet on the bedside table.

Hannah stopped her hand-strengthening exercises and looked at the screen. It displayed a prominent tabloid headline: “HERITAGE OR HOAX? IS THE BROKEN WIFE OF ADRIAN PRESCOTT A SCHEMING BLACKMAILER?”

The article accused Hannah of fabricating the entire balcony incident, claiming she had intentionally jumped to frame her husband and secure a massive divorce settlement. It quoted an anonymous “family friend” who claimed Hannah had been stealing funds from the Prescott foundation for months prior to the fall.

“Arthur Vance leaked this to every major news outlet in the Midwest,” Sarah said angrily. “They’re trying to taint the potential jury pool and paint you as a bitter, gold-digging fraud who orchestrated her own fall.”

Hannah didn't flinch. She picked up the tablet, read the article with a cool, analytical eye, and handed it back.

“It’s a classic defense tactic,” Hannah said calmly. “When the physical evidence is indisputable, attack the victim’s credibility. Who was the anonymous source?”

“We’re still tracing the leak,” Sarah replied, “but we suspect it’s Julian Prescott—Adrian’s younger brother.”

Hannah’s eyebrows raised slightly. Julian was the family’s quiet, black-sheep artist who lived in a luxury loft downtown, completely funded by Vivian’s monthly allowance. He had always played the role of the uninvolved slacker, but Hannah knew better.

“Check Julian’s personal bank accounts,” Hannah instructed Sarah instantly. “Three days before I fell, I saw Julian entering Vivian’s private study late at night. He wasn't just taking an allowance. He was running the offshore transfer routing numbers through his art gallery’s merchant portal.”

Sarah stared at her, stunned. “You think Julian was in on the fraud?”

“I know he was,” Hannah said firmly. “Julian’s gallery in Soho hasn't sold an actual painting in two years, yet it processed four hundred thousand dollars in ‘art sales’ last quarter. It’s a laundering conduit for the Caymans money. Find those receipts, Sarah, and Arthur Vance’s smear campaign will collapse like a house of cards.”

Sarah pulled out her smartphone, already speed-dialing her team at the precinct. “I’m executing a search warrant on the gallery tonight.”

“Make sure you check the safe behind the canvas in his back office,” Hannah added smoothly. “That’s where Julian keeps his duplicate ledgers.”

As Sarah rushed out of the room to mobilize the raid, Hannah pushed herself up from her bed, grabbed her metal walker, and stood erect. The pain shot up her spine, but she ignored it, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room.