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"Fair," Arthur mused, picking up the fountain pen. "A strange word for betting on a man’s funeral."

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I was twenty-nine, possessed a predatory line of credit, and was about to buy his death.

In the industry, they call it a life settlement. To the uninitiated, it’s a "death bond." I prefer to think of it as a high-stakes bridge. I provide the capital for a man to enjoy his final years in a villa in Tuscany, and in exchange, I inherit the right to collect when his heart finally stops.

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I felt a surge of adrenaline—the dark, electric thrill of a closing deal. "I’m sorry to hear that, Arthur. Truly."

Silence stretched over the line. I did the math in my head. If Arthur lived another twenty years, the premiums would eat the entire four million. I wouldn’t just lose the profit; I would lose my career. I would be paying to keep a man alive who had tricked me into being his ultimate benefactor. "Arthur?" I croaked.