When the doctors told him his wife had only three days to live, he leaned over the hospital bed and, hiding his satisfaction behind a cold smile, whispered: “At last… everything you have will be mine.”

“Always thinking ahead,” she replied.

For a split second, something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, maybe. Or something darker.

“I’m protecting what’s ours,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Ours?” she repeated, her tone quiet but pointed.

Before the tension could stretch any further, Dr. Emily entered the room carrying a tray. The interruption broke the moment, but not the undercurrent.

Santiago stepped aside, but his eyes drifted—instinctively—toward the IV pump.

Emily noticed immediately.

“Please don’t touch the equipment,” she said, her voice polite but firm.

He straightened slightly.

“Relax,” he replied, the edge in his voice betraying irritation.

That was enough.

It wasn’t suspicion anymore.

It was a signal.

That same afternoon, Santiago was asked to step into the medical director’s office.

“Mr. Bennett,” the director began carefully, folding his hands on the desk, “we’ve identified some irregularities in recent medication orders.”

Santiago’s expression remained composed.

“Irregularities?”

“Certain medications were administered that don’t align with the patient’s diagnosis. The approvals… carry your authorization.”

A pause.

“I trusted the medical staff,” Santiago replied smoothly.