“J-just bring me a pen and paper,” I said. “I want to write a will. I want to legally sever ties with my husband and my parents. Make it clean. Make it official.”
Dr. Antonio’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to make decisions like that right now.”
“Y-yes, I do,” I replied. “And after that, bring me the organ donation forms. If I don’t get a heart in time, I want mine to go to someone else. At least let my death mean something.”
He didn’t argue again.
Kale never came back. Neither did my mother or father. But Silvia did.
She started sending videos. Every day.
The first one showed my bedroom. Or what used to be mine. The walls were being repainted. My books were stacked in boxes. My closet was empty.
Silvia’s voice sounded light, almost cheerful. “My hubby Kale said the room needs better airflow for my recovery. He thinks I’ll sleep better here.”
Hubby? Wow.
In the background, my mom laughed softly. “Of course you will. This room gets the best sunlight.”
Another video came that night. Silvia was sitting on my bed, wrapped in a blanket. Kale walked in. He looked tired, but the moment he saw her, his expression softened.
“Did you take your meds, baby?” he asked gently.
She nodded and smiled. “You remind me every time, hubby…”
He sat down beside her. She shifted closer. A second later, she was sitting on his lap. Not shy. Not hesitant. Like it was natural.
“Don’t move too much,” he murmured, his hand steady on her waist. “Your stitches are still healing.”
Dad’s voice came from behind the camera. “Look at them. So close already.”
Mom added, “Silvia finally has someone who truly cares for her.”
No one mentioned that he was my husband.
Another clip.
Silvia held up my old plush rabbit. The one Mom bought when I was a child because I was terrified of being alone when she worked night shifts. The fur was worn thin from years of holding it close.
“This is so outdated,” Silvia said with a small laugh.
Kale glanced at it. “If it makes you uncomfortable, throw it away.”
Dad took it from her and dropped it into a trash bag.
I watched that part three times.
Then the messages started.
“Marion, I think ‘MY MUM’ never really liked you. She seems so much happier now. Poor thing.”
“Dad says you’ve always been too sensitive.”
“You should apologize properly. Kale works so hard. You embarrassed him.”
Another one came later.
“Kale took me to the balcony tonight. He said I deserve peace after everything I’ve been through.”
Attached was a photo. Silvia leaning against his chest. His arms around her. My parents sitting nearby, smiling like this was something beautiful. Not just that, she sent me a clip of them having slow sex in our bedroom. She kept moaning his name while my husband was gasping hers.
The heart monitor beside me beeped faster.
I opened my social media account and changed my name to “Marionette Waiting for a Heart.” I uploaded my diagnosis. I posted proof of the donor match that was redirected. I added screenshots of Silvia’s videos.
Then I typed slowly.
“There was a matching donor heart. It was given away. My cheating liar husband approved it. My mother signed it. My father supported it. I was told to understand.”
I stared at the blinking cursor for a long time before adding one more line.
“In what world does a biological daughter become less important than the adopted one she was forced to call sister? And to add insult to injury, that very adopted orphan girl became my husband's mistress and lover!”
I hit the post.
Three hours later the door slammed open and Kale walked in first. His hair was messy like he’d run all the way here and his jaw was tight. My mom and dad were right behind him.
“Marionette!” his voice was low and controlled but shaking with anger, “what did you fucking post?!”
He grabbed my phone from my hand before I could even react.
“Delete it,” he ordered. “Delete it right now!”
The screen was exploding with notifications. Thousands of shares. Tens of thousands of comments.
My mom looked pale. Dad kept pacing.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” Kale snapped. “People are tracking Silvia down! What the fuck! Someone went to the orphanage she grew up in. She just had major surgery. She can’t handle this kind of pressure.”
I looked at him calmly. I didn’t even feel angry anymore.
“What about me?” I asked. “I’m lying in the ICU. Can I handle her sending me videos every day? Of you two in my room? Fucking each other? Of my things being thrown out?”
Kale’s expression hardened. “She was trying to show she cares.”
“Care?” I let out a dry laugh. “Care about what? About when I die so she can officially take my place and be your wife?! Huh! Tell me.”
“Watch your mouth!”
Behind him, Silvia stepped in quietly. Her eyes were red again. She looked fragile, leaning slightly against my mom.
“Kale,” she said softly, touching his arm, “don’t be too harsh on her. She’s sick.”
His voice changed instantly. Softer. “Silvia, you shouldn’t even be here. You need rest.”
“I was worried about you,” she whispered.
He brushed her hair back gently. “I’m fine. I’ll handle this.”
I watched that small movement and felt something inside me collapse.
Mom finally stepped forward. “Marionette, you’re not thinking clearly. These posts are damaging the hospital’s reputation. They’re destroying everything we built.”
“Everything you built,” I corrected quietly.
Kale turned back to me. “Delete the post. Issue a public apology. Say you were emotional and exaggerated the story. End this now.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Then I will make sure no hospital in this city accepts you. Do you understand me?”
There was no warmth in his voice. No hesitation.
Just authority.
I looked at my mother. “Are you going to cut off my medical funding again?”
Her eyes flickered away for a second.
That was my answer.
Mom straightened her back and slipped into that clinical tone she used at conferences. “As of today, you are being discharged. Our hospital cannot accommodate a patient who causes public disruption.”
Dr. Antonio rushed in. “Dr. Jones, she’s in no condition to be discharged.”
“Then transfer her,” Mom replied coldly. “We will not keep her here.”
Kale leaned closer to my bed. His voice dropped low so only I could hear. “Delete it, Marionette. Apologize publicly. Say you lied because you were unstable. Protect Silvia. This is your last chance.”
Protect Silvia.
Not save me.
Not help me.
Protect Silvia.
I stared at his face. This was the man who used to hold my hand during checkups. The man who promised he would fight for me. Now he was fighting me.
“Do whatever you want,” I said quietly.
Silvia tugged at his sleeve. “Kale… let’s go. Please. I don’t want you stressed.”
He turned to her immediately. “Okay. I’m coming.”
Mom paused at the door and looked back at me. “Don’t blame us for being heartless. You’re the one who ruined Silvia’s life first.”
The door closed.
Dr. Antonio stood there for a long time. “I can help you contact a hospital in another city,” he whispered.
“No need,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “Thank you for everything, Dr. Antonio. But I’m tired.”
And I was. Tired of fighting. Tired of begging. Tired of hoping someone would finally choose me.
The next morning I signed my own discharge papers. The bill showed an outstanding balance of 19,000 dollars. Mom really had cut off the funding.
I transferred the last of my savings and signed a promissory note for the rest.
Then I did the one thing I swore I’d never do. I called Dr. Argus Wollingston. Kale’s stepbrother. His rival.
The phone rang twice.
He picked up. “What now?” His voice was sharp, irritated. “Why are you calling me?” he added. “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”
I swallowed. My chest hurt just from standing.
“Please,” I said. No pride left. “I need your help.”
Silence.
“I’m not anyone’s wife anymore,” I said. “Not anyone’s daughter either.”
Another pause.
“I’m dying, Argus.”
His breathing changed.
“I’ll pick you up."
Then the line went dead.
