The patient room on the 7th floor of a private hospital was eerily still. The heart monitor pulsed in rhythm, and sterile lights illuminated the pale features of Harley—a woman just recovering from thyroid surgery.
AD
Not fully awake from the anesthesia, Harley blinked and saw her husband Mark standing by the bed, a pile of documents in his hands.
– You’re up? Good. Sign this.
His tone was distant, completely void of sympathy.
AD
Harley blinked in confusion:
– What is that… what kind of document?
Mark slid the papers toward her, replying curtly:
