My husband threw me off a mountain for a $50 million payout and reported me dead before rescuers even arrived—so when they found me alive, I begged them not to tell him and let him plan my funeral instead

Chapter 2

The helicopter carried me off the mountain before dawn, and I remember the flight the way you remember a fever: the white ceiling panels, the vibration humming through the stretcher, a medic’s voice coming at me in intervals like a lighthouse.

“Stay with us, ma’am. Stay with us.”

His name tape read O. WADE. Owen Wade, I’d learn later — a rescue paramedic with steady hands and a voice that never seemed to hurry. Every few minutes he told me something small: the storm was breaking; there was coffee at the hospital worth drinking; his mother had his name tattooed on her ankle in cursive and he still blamed her. Small things. Anchors. Things to hold onto so the dark couldn’t take me.

I held onto one sentence instead: my son was still kicking.