My chest felt like it was on fire as I dragged my suitcase out of the inpatient ward.
Each step sent pain tearing through my body, sharp enough to make it feel as though my ribs were splitting apart from the inside. Still, I kept moving.
No one offered assistance.
Not a single nurse stopped me to ask whether I was even well enough to leave.
No one cared.
“Seraphina!”
I froze.
At the bottom of the stairs, they were waiting.
All of them.
My mother.
My father.
Evangeline.
And Nikolai.
Standing side by side.
Together.
As if I were the outsider intruding on their family.
My mother looked immaculate, as always. Her makeup was flawless, her suit perfectly tailored, and her expression carried just the right amount of carefully rehearsed concern.
“Sera, what are you doing?” she asked as she hurried toward me. “Why are you checking yourself out? You’re far too weak to leave. Come back inside.”
I shifted away before her hand could reach me.
“Dr. Whitmore,” I said coldly, “just say whatever it is you came here to say.”
For a fraction of a second, her polished smile faltered.
Then it returned.
Controlled. Elegant. Fake.
“The press is gathered in the conference room,” she said smoothly. “We need to clear up this misunderstanding.”
I stared at her.
“Misunderstanding?”
My voice sharpened.
“Which misunderstanding, exactly?”
I tilted my head.
“The part where I supposedly don’t have heart disease?”
I took a breath.
“Or the part where my husband gave my donor heart to that bitch?”
My father’s expression darkened.
“Mind your language.”
Evangeline stepped forward then, her eyes shimmering with carefully gathered tears.
“Sera… please,” she said softly. “Don’t do this.”
Her voice trembled.
“If you’re angry, direct it at me.”
She clasped her hands together.
“I’ll explain everything to the media myself. I’ll leave if that helps.”
Her voice broke.
“I can go back to the orphanage.”
She lowered her gaze.
“If that makes things easier for everyone.”
Before I could respond, Nikolai moved.
He gently guided Evangeline behind him, his palm settling protectively against the small of her back.
“Don’t say that.”
His voice softened instantly.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Then he looked at me.
Every trace of warmth vanished.
His face hardened.
“You’ve humiliated this entire hospital,” he said, his tone cold and unforgiving. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
I swallowed against the pain in my chest.
“I told the truth.”
His jaw tightened.
“The truth?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
“You’re emotional. You’re unstable. You’re not thinking clearly.”
My mother gave a small nod, as though he had stated something perfectly rational.
Then Nikolai closed the distance between us.
His hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.
Hard.
The pressure sent pain shooting up my arm and triggered a violent spasm in my chest.
I nearly dropped my suitcase.
“Let go,” I whispered.
“We’re going to the conference room.”
It wasn’t a request.
It was an order.
“I can walk.”
“Then walk.”
But he didn’t release me.
Instead, he dragged me down the hallway anyway.
Pain pulsed through my body, each step worsening the tightness in my chest. Humiliation burned even hotter.
Nurses stared.
Interns whispered.
Every pair of eyes followed us.
Behind me, I heard Evangeline’s soft voice.
“Nikolai… don’t be too rough.”
But when I turned slightly, I saw it.
The faint twitch at the corner of her lips.
The way her smile almost widened.
“I won’t,” he replied.
Still, his grip never loosened.
It hurt.
Not just my wrist.
Everything.
This was the same man who once promised he would protect me.
The same hands that used to hold mine during procedures, calming me when I was afraid.
Now those same hands were forcing me forward like I was a problem that needed managing.
My parents walked behind us as if this were normal.
As if I weren’t their daughter.
“Fine,” I said quietly.
I stopped resisting.
“I’ll go.”
…
Inside the conference room, Evangeline immediately took the seat beside Nikolai.
No—closer than beside.
He pulled her chair toward his until their shoulders nearly touched.
One arm rested behind her, fingers lightly brushing her shoulder, as though shielding her from the world.
I sat at the far end of the table.
Alone.
No one chose the chair beside me.
My mother and father remained behind them, silent and watchful, like spectators enduring a difficult performance.
One reporter spoke first.
“Dr. Nikolai Laurent, can you explain your decision regarding the donor heart? Why was it reassigned?”
Nikolai accepted the microphone without hesitation.
Calm.
Collected.
Untouchable.
“As a physician,” he began, “I made the decision based on medical logic and projected outcome.”
His voice never shook.
“The patient who received the transplant had a significantly better expected recovery rate.”
The patient.
Not Evangeline.
Not even her name.
And certainly not mine.
“My wife’s case was medically complex,” he continued. “There were substantial risks involved.”
Risks.
Evangeline’s fingers curled around his sleeve.
Nikolai immediately looked down at her.
“It isn’t your fault,” he murmured, gently sweeping hair away from her face. “Ignore the noise.”
The tenderness in his voice hurt more than the disease ever had.
A reporter turned toward me.
“Miss Seraphina, do you agree with your husband’s explanation?”
The microphone was thrust toward my face.
I took a breath.
“Yes,” I said softly.
The room visibly relaxed.
“Dr. Nikolai Laurent is extremely responsible.”
For half a second, everyone exhaled.
Then I continued.
“He’s especially responsible when Evangeline is involved.”
The silence returned instantly.
Nikolai’s jaw flexed.
“Seraphina.”
I ignored the warning.
“You gave her my heart.”
I looked directly at him.
“Not only as a doctor.”
My voice sharpened.
“As my husband.”
I swallowed.
“As her lover.”
“Enough.”
His voice came low and dangerous.
I continued anyway.
“You held my hand and told me no compatible donors existed.”
My voice trembled.
“You told me all we could do was wait.”
I leaned forward.
“And then you signed the paperwork and handed that heart to her.”
Evangeline began crying again.
Softly.
Nikolai immediately pulled her closer.
“Stop attacking her.”
Anger flashed in his eyes.
“She just survived major surgery.”
I laughed weakly.
“So was I.”
The words barely came out.
I was surviving too.
Suddenly Nikolai stood.
His palm slammed against the table with a loud crack.
“You’re being emotional again.”
His voice snapped like a whip.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want you speaking.”
Behind him, my mother shifted but stayed silent.
My father refused to meet my eyes.
My heartbeat became erratic.
My vision blurred at the edges.
Still, I spoke.
“You always choose her.”
My voice shook.
“When she moved into our house, you gave her my room because she liked the sunlight.”
I stared at him.
“When I asked why, you called me unreasonable.”
Nikolai’s face turned rigid.
“It was only a room.”
I laughed.
Broken.
“It was my room.”
His expression darkened.
“Everything doesn’t revolve around you.”
The words landed like a blade.
I smiled bitterly.
“No.”
I turned toward the cameras.
“It never does.”
I looked straight into the lenses.
Let them capture every second.
“My husband chose my adopted sister over me.”
My voice slowed.
“My parents supported him.”
I inhaled painfully.
“So tell me this.”
I let the question hang.
“If a doctor won’t save his own wife because he prefers someone else…”
My voice cracked.
“Would you trust him with your life?”
“Seraphina.”
Nikolai stepped toward me.
His voice became a warning.
“Shut up.”
Evangeline clutched his arm.
“Nikolai, please… don’t fight.”
Immediately his tone softened.
“I’m not fighting.”
He touched her hand.
“I’m here.”
Then his gaze returned to me.
All steel.
“Sit down.”
My heart began pounding violently.
Too fast.
Too hard.
Every beat felt wrong.
Pain exploded through my chest.
I tried to steady myself.
My knees gave out.
The floor rushed upward.
I collapsed.
Someone screamed.
Warm liquid filled my mouth.
Blood.
Reporters surged forward.
Camera flashes exploded nonstop.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
My mother suddenly panicked.
“Stop filming!”
Her voice broke.
“She’s exaggerating!”
She pointed at me.
“She just wants attention!”
My father tried to block the cameras.
Nikolai dropped beside me.
But there was no panic in his face.
Only frustration.
“Seraphina!”
His voice was sharp with irritation.
“Stop this.”
His hands gripped my shoulders.
“Enough with the acting.”
His lip curled.
“Quit behaving like some FAMAS actress.”
I smiled.
Blood ran from the corner of my mouth.
For the first time…
Everyone could see.
Dr. Bennett shoved through the crowd carrying a defibrillator.
He dropped beside me.
Pads pressed to my chest.
Once.
Twice.
His voice cut through the chaos.
“Clear!”
My body jerked.
Everything felt distant.
Muted.
Far away.
I think I smiled.
At least the cameras saw all of it.
Then a voice reached me from somewhere impossibly far.
Clinical.
Detached.
Professional.
“Seraphina Whitmore Laurent.”
A pause.
“Female. Twenty-five years old.”
Another pause.
Then the final words.
“Time of death: 10:06 a.m.”
And just like that—
I stopped being their burden.
I stopped being an inconvenience.
I stopped being the problem.
