Serena curled into Derek's arms, tears streaming. "Derek, don't blame her. She's probably just jealous."
A delicate pause. "After all, I'm the one you're marrying. She was always just... temporary."
Derek wiped her cheeks, his voice dripping with tenderness. "Temporary? She's the help."
Then he pulled out his phone. Right in front of me. Dialed my father's attending physician.
Speakerphone on.
"This is Dr. Gilbert. Cut Old Mr. Fox's ventilator for thirty minutes."
Silence. Then the doctor's voice, strained: "Dr. Gilbert, that's... he can't survive without it. Thirty minutes will kill him."
Derek's eyes locked onto mine. His lips curled.
"Do it. If anything happens, I'll take responsibility." A beat. "Or just say the family requested it."
He hung up.
Less than a minute later, the ICU monitors screamed down the hallway.
The sound of death counting down.
"No! You monster!"
I collapsed. The pain in my abdomen meant nothing. I knelt on the bed, forehead hitting the mattress, again and again.
"Please—don't touch my dad. I'll sign. I'll sign anything."
"Whatever you want. Just don't stop his oxygen."
Dignity?
When your father's life hangs by a thread, dignity is worthless.
Derek smiled, satisfied. He made another call. Oxygen restored.
Then he leaned down and patted my face. Like praising an obedient dog.
"See? If you'd cooperated earlier, we could've skipped all this."
"Tomorrow. Eight a.m. Operating room." His voice dropped. "Clean yourself up. I don't like dirty things."
Serena giggled behind her hand. "How sensible of you, sister. Thank you for being so generous."
They left.
I stayed in the darkness, alone, listening to my father's faint heartbeat echoing from down the hall.
Something inside me died that night.
I lay awake until dawn, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Five years rewound like a film reel.
Buying the cheapest pads so I could afford his textbooks.
Treating his entire lab to dinner when he published his first paper—more excited than he was.
His promise: "Alex, when I'm a famous doctor, the first thing I'll do is cure Dad."
All of it. A lie.
From the very beginning, I was just a cost he'd calculated and accepted.
Six a.m. Morning rounds.
Derek swept in with a flock of interns. Crisp white coat, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light. No trace of last night's cruelty.
"Alright, everyone. Today we discuss a special case."
He gestured toward me. Like pointing at an object.
"Patient Fox. Uterine malformation causing recurrent miscarriages. She has expressed a strong desire to donate."
"We'll perform a high-difficulty partial uterine transplant. The recipient is a young woman with congenital uterine underdevelopment."
Pens flew across notebooks.
Someone murmured, "A living donor transplant? Has this cleared ethics review?"
Derek's gaze flicked to them, cold.
"Family signatures are complete. The patient herself strongly wishes to atone—" He caught himself. "—to contribute."
The slip was deliberate. Whispers rippled through the group.
Their eyes landed on me.
Curiosity. Pity. Contempt.
Like I was a medical specimen. Meat on a slab, waiting for the knife.
My nails dug into the sheets until they broke skin.
"You're lying!"
