“J-just… get me a pen and some paper,” I said at last, forcing the words through a throat that felt scraped raw. “I need to write my will.”
Dr. Bennett frowned, clearly unsettled.
“I want everything documented,” I continued, each breath shallow and painful. “I’m severing all legal ties with my husband and with my parents. I want it clean. No loose ends. No ambiguity.”
Shock flashed across his face.
“Seraphina, you don’t need to make irreversible decisions while you’re in this state.”
“Yes,” I said, cutting him off before he could continue. “I do.”
My voice trembled, but my mind had never felt clearer.
“And after that… bring me the organ donation papers.”
He stared at me.
“If I don’t survive long enough to receive another heart,” I said quietly, “then I want mine donated to someone else.”
I swallowed hard.
“At least let my death matter to someone.”
This time, he didn’t argue.
Not once.
Not again.
Nikolai never returned.
Neither did my mother.
Nor my father.
But Evangeline did.
Not in person.
She sent videos.
Every single day.
The first video made my stomach twist.
It showed my bedroom.
Or rather, the room that used to belong to me.
Workers were repainting the walls. My books had been packed into cardboard boxes and stacked near the door. My closet stood wide open, stripped bare.
Nothing left.
Evangeline’s voice came from behind the camera, airy and cheerful.
“Nikolai says this room needs better ventilation for my recovery.”
She giggled.
“He thinks I’ll sleep better here.”
Nikolai.
Not my husband.
Not Dr. Laurent.
Just Nikolai.
Then came the word that nearly made me sick.
“Hubby.”
Hubby.
Behind her, my mother laughed softly.
“Of course you will,” she said warmly. “This room gets the nicest morning light.”
That night, another video arrived.
Evangeline sat on my bed, wrapped in a thick blanket. Nikolai entered the frame looking exhausted, his tie loosened, dark circles under his eyes.
But the second he saw her, everything about him softened.
The exhaustion vanished.
“Did you take your medication, baby?” he asked, voice gentle.
Baby.
Evangeline smiled sweetly.
“You remind me every single time, hubby.”
He sat beside her.
She immediately shifted closer.
Closer.
Until she climbed onto his lap like she had every right to be there.
No hesitation.
No shame.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t move too much,” he murmured, one hand settling securely around her waist. “Your stitches are still healing.”
From behind the camera, my father chuckled.
“Look at those two.”
His voice held approval.
“They’ve gotten close fast.”
My mother sounded pleased.
“Evangeline finally has someone who truly cherishes her.”
No one corrected them.
No one said the obvious.
No one mentioned that the man holding her was still my husband.
The next clip came the following afternoon.
Evangeline held up an old plush rabbit.
My rabbit.
The one Mom bought me when I was little because I used to cry whenever she worked overnight shifts and left me alone.
Its fur had thinned over the years from being hugged too tightly during lonely nights.
Evangeline wrinkled her nose.
“This thing is ancient.”
She laughed lightly.
“So ugly.”
Nikolai barely glanced at it.
“If it bothers you,” he said casually, “throw it out.”
Dad took the rabbit from her.
Without hesitation, he tossed it into a trash bag.
I replayed that clip three times.
Three.
As if watching it again might somehow make it hurt less.
It didn’t.
Then the messages started.
Text after text.
Message after message.
“Sera, I don’t think MY MUM ever truly liked you. She seems much happier now. Poor woman.”
Another.
“Dad says you’ve always been overly sensitive.”
Then another.
“You should apologize sincerely. Nikolai works so hard, and you humiliated him.”
Later that night, a new message arrived.
“Nikolai brought me to the balcony tonight.”
A smiling emoji followed.
“He said I deserve peace after everything I’ve endured.”
Attached was a photo.
Evangeline leaned against his chest, relaxed and content.
Nikolai’s arms wrapped around her.
My parents sat nearby, smiling at them as though witnessing something beautiful.
Something pure.
As if none of this were twisted.
Then came the final clip.
I nearly stopped breathing.
It was my bedroom.
My bed.
Them.
Evangeline beneath him.
Nikolai above her.
Slow.
Intimate.
Deliberate.
She moaned his name.
He gasped hers.
The monitor beside me began beeping faster.
Faster.
Faster.
My pulse spiked.
Instead of crying, I reached for my phone.
I opened my social media.
Changed my display name.
Seraphina Waiting for a Heart.
Then I uploaded everything.
My diagnosis.
My medical records.
Proof of the donor-heart match that had been redirected.
Screenshots.
Videos.
Evidence.
Then I began typing.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“There was a donor heart compatible with me.”
My fingers trembled.
“It was taken away.”
I kept going.
“My lying, cheating husband approved the transfer. My mother signed the documents. My father supported the decision.”
I inhaled shakily.
“I was told to be understanding.”
The cursor blinked.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then added one final paragraph.
“In what kind of world does a biological daughter become less important than the adopted daughter she was forced to call sister?”
My chest tightened.
I kept typing.
“And to make the humiliation complete, that same adopted orphan became my husband’s lover.”
Post.
I hit publish.
Three hours later, the ICU door slammed open so violently it struck the wall.
Nikolai stormed in first.
His hair was disheveled like he’d rushed here without stopping. His entire body radiated restrained fury.
My parents followed close behind.
“Seraphina.”
His voice was dangerously calm.
Too calm.
“What the fuck did you post?”
Before I could react, he snatched my phone from my hand.
“Delete it.”
His voice sharpened.
“Delete it right now.”
The screen flashed nonstop.
Notifications flooded in.
Thousands of shares.
Tens of thousands of comments.
My mother looked drained of color.
My father paced restlessly.
Nikolai turned back to me.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?”
His anger finally cracked through.
“People are hunting Evangeline down online!”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“Someone tracked down the orphanage where she grew up. She just had major surgery—she cannot handle this pressure.”
I looked at him quietly.
I felt strangely empty.
No rage.
No panic.
Nothing.
“What about me?” I asked.
My voice was calm.
“I’m the one lying in ICU.”
I held his gaze.
“Can I handle receiving daily videos from her?”
I spoke slowly.
“Videos of you both in my room?”
My lips trembled.
“Videos of my belongings being thrown away?”
My voice dropped.
“Videos of you fucking each other?”
Nikolai’s face hardened.
“She was trying to show you she cared.”
I laughed.
Dry.
Lifeless.
“Cared?”
I repeated.
“About what?”
I stared at him.
“About whether I’ll die soon enough so she can officially take my place as your wife?”
I raised my voice.
“Tell me!”
“Watch your mouth!”
The sharp command cut through the room.
Then movement behind him caught my eye.
Evangeline stepped inside.
Quietly.
Her eyes were red and swollen.
She leaned slightly against my mother as though too weak to stand alone.
“Nikolai…”
Her voice came soft and fragile.
She touched his arm.
“Don’t be too harsh on her.”
Her lashes lowered.
“She’s sick.”
Instantly, his entire demeanor changed.
His anger melted.
“Evangeline.”
His voice softened.
“You shouldn’t even be here.”
He brushed hair away from her face with infinite care.
“You need rest.”
She looked up at him.
“I was worried about you.”
His expression warmed.
“I’m fine.”
His thumb brushed her cheek.
“I’ll handle this.”
That tiny gesture broke something inside me.
Again.
My mother finally stepped forward.
“Seraphina, you aren’t thinking rationally.”
Her voice took on that calm, diplomatic tone she used in conferences.
“These posts are harming the hospital’s reputation.”
She folded her arms.
“They’re destroying everything we’ve worked for.”
I looked at her.
Quietly, I corrected her.
“Everything you built.”
Nikolai faced me again.
“Delete the post.”
His tone became clipped.
“Then issue a public statement.”
He spoke like giving medical orders.
“Say you were emotional. Say you exaggerated. Clarify that your condition affected your judgment.”
He leaned closer.
“End this. Now.”
I met his eyes.
“And if I refuse?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Then I’ll make sure no hospital in this city accepts you.”
Silence.
“Do you understand?”
No hesitation.
No compassion.
Only power.
Authority.
Control.
I slowly turned toward my mother.
“Are you cutting off my medical funding again?”
Her gaze shifted away.
Only for a second.
But that second told me everything.
Answer received.
My mother straightened, spine rigid.
Her face became clinical.
Emotionless.
“As of today, you are discharged.”
She spoke like reading policy.
“Our hospital will not continue accommodating a patient who creates public disruption.”
The door opened again.
Dr. Bennett rushed inside.
“Dr. Whitmore, she cannot be discharged in this condition.”
My mother didn’t blink.
“Then transfer her elsewhere.”
Her voice remained ice-cold.
“She will not remain here.”
Nikolai bent until only I could hear him.
His voice dropped low.
“Delete the post, Seraphina.”
Each word came deliberate.
“Apologize publicly.”
A pause.
“Say you lied because you were mentally unstable.”
Another pause.
“Protect Evangeline.”
Protect Evangeline.
Not save me.
Not help me.
Not choose me.
Protect Evangeline.
I stared at him.
Really stared.
This was the man who once held my hand during every checkup.
The man who promised he would fight beside me.
Now he was fighting against me.
I felt nothing.
No grief.
Just clarity.
“Do whatever you want.”
My voice barely rose above a whisper.
Evangeline tugged gently at his sleeve.
“Nikolai… please.”
Her voice trembled.
“Let’s go.”
She looked worried.
“I don’t want you getting stressed.”
He turned to her instantly.
All softness again.
“Okay.”
Warm.
Gentle.
“I’m coming.”
My mother paused near the doorway.
Then she looked back.
“Don’t call us heartless.”
Her expression hardened.
“You ruined Evangeline’s life first.”
Then they left.
The door shut.
Silence returned.
Dr. Bennett stood beside my bed for what felt like forever.
Finally, he spoke.
Barely above a whisper.
“I can help transfer you to another hospital.”
He hesitated.
“Even another city.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“No.”
The word came soft.
“No need.”
I swallowed.
“Thank you… for everything, Dr. Bennett.”
I exhaled.
“But I’m tired.”
And I was.
So tired.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of begging.
Tired of waiting for someone—anyone—to finally choose me.
The next morning, I signed my own discharge papers.
The billing statement showed an unpaid balance of nineteen thousand dollars.
So she really did it.
My mother had cut funding completely.
I transferred the last of my savings.
Used every remaining cent.
For the rest, I signed a promissory note.
Then I did the one thing I swore I never would.
I called Dr. Alexander Sterling.
Nikolai’s stepbrother.
His rival.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then he answered.
“What now?”
His voice was sharp and impatient.
“Why are you calling me?”
A beat passed.
“I thought you hated me.”
I swallowed.
Even standing hurt.
Pain clawed through my chest.
“Please.”
The word came stripped of pride.
“I need your help.”
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
“I’m not anyone’s wife anymore,” I said.
My throat tightened.
“I’m not anyone’s daughter either.”
Nothing.
Then I forced out the truth.
“I’m dying, Argus.”
His breathing changed.
The silence sharpened.
Then his voice came, stripped of all sarcasm.
“I’m coming to get you.”
The call ended.
