Yolanda's eyes filled with tears as she reached for my hand. "Seeing you like this, Callum… it breaks my heart. If your dad hadn’t been in critical condition, I never would’ve let you donate your last kidney."
Hearing those words after everything I had just found out made my stomach twist. My fingers curled into the blanket, but I forced myself to stay calm.
I took a slow breath. "Yolanda… this artificial kidney… it's unbearable. The pain never stops. I don’t think I can do this anymore. Maybe Jordan could—"
"No!" Her sharp voice cut through the room like a slap.
Maybe she realized how harsh she sounded, because the next second, she softened her tone, brushing my hair back gently. "Callum, you know you can't take back something you've already donated. That’s not how it works.
“Jordan’s health is fragile and matching kidney donors are so rare. You were the only one willing to help him. Do you really want him to suffer? To die?"
She looked me straight in the eyes as she said it, her expression full of sincerity. And in that moment, I knew, she didn’t feel guilty at all.
I thought back to the night it all started.
Jordan and my fiancée at the time, Kyra Silverman, got into a terrible car accident. Jordan was badly injured and needed a kidney transplant. Kyra and Yolanda begged me to save him, making me feel like I had no choice.
It wasn’t until later that I learned the truth. The crash didn’t happen because of bad weather or reckless driving.
It happened because Jordan and Kyra were screwing around in the car—literally. And yet, I was the one who paid the price.
Yolanda stroked my face, her voice soft. "Be good, okay? You have an artificial kidney now and it's keeping you alive, isn’t it? I’ll get you two painkillers and then I’ll hold you until you fall asleep. It won’t hurt, I promise."
Yeah, right. If artificial kidneys were so great, why didn’t she make Jordan get one? Because she couldn’t stand the thought of him suffering.
That night, I made her warm milk like always, only this time, I slipped in two sleeping pills.
She fell asleep fast. Maybe too fast. Her body relaxed, her chest rising and falling steadily. And that was when I noticed it, just a small glimpse of ink peeking out from beneath her pajama collar. A tattoo.
I hesitated, then carefully unbuttoned her top a little. It was a delicate tattoo of a little princess holding a rose.
And on the petals of that rose, one name was written. Jordan.
No wonder she always insisted on wearing pajamas to bed. No wonder she never let me see her fully undressed, even when we were making love.
I had never really been her husband, just a fool she used to keep her real love alive. I used to think it was just a habit of hers, nothing more. But now, everything made sense.
Every choice she made, every careful decision—it was all a lie.
My hands trembled as I reached for my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I needed. A childhood friend. A doctor. Someone I could trust.
The call barely rang before he picked up.
"I need you to do a surgery for me," I said, my voice calm. Too calm.
A beat of silence. Then, "Callum… are you sure?"
"Yes," I answered without hesitation. "I won’t regret it. See you in three days."
If Yolanda could take my father’s life and destroy my body without a second thought, then I had no reason to accept her pity.
I set my phone down and turned toward her laptop. It was unlocked. She had always been careless with her passwords, never expecting me to look.
A folder on the desktop caught my attention. [The Beloved Rose.]
I clicked on it and my screen flooded with photos and videos of Jordan. Over ten gigabytes' worth.
File after file, endless proof of her devotion. Then, I found their chat logs. Screenshots—meticulously saved, each labeled with a date.
I scrolled through them, bile rising in my throat. She had given him everything. Watches, jewelry, luxury trips.
And then, the best part; an entire castle. Because Jordan had once texted her, [Yolanda, I think the air in Serica is terrible. What if it slows down my scar recovery? I’m your prince, right? All the princes in movies live in castles.]
And just like that, she bought him one.
I kept scrolling, coming across a newer picture—Jordan lifting his shirt, showing off his scars.
Except… there were no scars. The best plastic surgeons in Serica had already taken care of them.
Meanwhile, I looked down at my own body, at the deep, ugly scars cutting across my stomach. No fancy surgeons for me. No castle. Just pain.
I closed the folder, my breath uneven. But then, another file caught my eye. A spreadsheet.
[Jordan's Spare Organ Bank.]
I opened it, my chest tightening as I read through the list. More than a dozen names. Each with a price tag.
[No. 1: Willing to donate organs for 300 thousand dollars. A little old, temporarily for Jordan.]
[No. 2: Willing to donate organs for 600 thousand dollars. Quite greedy. Kidney health is good, but unfortunately, she’s a woman. I don’t want another woman’s organ inside Jordan’s body. Temporary backup.]
I gripped the laptop so hard my knuckles turned white. It was a damn spare parts list.
