Tired of Being My Husband's Substitute, I Ran Away

"Jerissa, the doctor said this heart is a better match for your sister. Tell your mother to wait for the next donor."

Jerald slid the Heart Transplant Waiver Form across the table toward Jerissa.

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the wine bottle. "So that's it?" Her voice was low, trembling with restrained fury.

"The first time I came to your house, it was only so you could ask me to give up the heart my mother has been waiting for five years—so that Juliette can live?"

Jerald frowned. "Your sister is younger, and her body is weaker. Besides, your mother has already waited five years; waiting a little longer won't hurt."

Jerissa let out a sharp laugh. "Jerald, I really didn't misjudge you." She leaned forward, eyes like blades. "If your precious daughter's life is worth everything, then what exactly are you willing to pay for it?"

A flash of irritation and wariness crossed his face. "What do you want?"

"All the Cortez Enterprises' overseas shares." She pulled out a contract she'd already prepared and placed it on the table. "And… you'll help me divorce Franco."

Veins bulged at his temples. He glared at her, voice shaking with rage. "Are you insane? I just poured every cent into our overseas market! Things are finally showing results, and you want to take it all? And as for Franco—the marriage was a business alliance. Juliette likes him. I told you to let her marry him, but you refused. Now you want to divorce him? What game are you playing?"

Jerissa swirled her glass lazily, watching the ripples of red wine shimmer. Her tone was flat, almost careless. "No game. I'm simply tired of him. She wants him? Then let her have him."

"You—!" His voice rose sharply. "Do you see your sister as nothing but a rival? Is this just to humiliate her?"

She drained her glass in one gulp, set it down with a sharp clink, and stood. "If you can't do it, forget I said anything. I'm tired. Do as you like."

Immediately he panicked. "I'll agree!"

Grabbing the pen, he signed the transfer contract without hesitation. His voice was tight and urgent. "Once Juliette's surgery succeeds, I'll take care of the divorce."

Every day Juliette spent in the hospital was tormenting him. He felt as if his own flesh was being carved away. He had no time to haggle—he just needed his younger daughter on the operating table, alive.

Jerissa inhaled deeply, then picked up the pen and signed her name on the transplant waiver.

The final stroke barely left the page when Jerald sneered. "I can understand you fighting Juliette for shares. But don't you love Franco so much you swallowed every humiliation, even when he brought other women home? Now you're willing to let him go?"

Her chest jolted, words stuck like shards in her throat.

He was her father. The man who should have stood behind her, shielded her from harm.

But what kind of father would spit such cruelty at his own daughter?

Jerissa didn't answer. She only turned and walked away.

Only behind the safety of her locked bedroom door did her trembling ease. She collapsed onto the bed, drowning in alcohol's haze until her mind went blank.

She didn't know how much time had passed when strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hard chest.

Hot breath brushed the shell of her ear, trailing across her cheek. His grip pinned her wrist above her head, the other hand sliding toward her collar—then abruptly stopping.

"You've been drinking?"

The voice was deep, magnetic—yet cold as steel. It snapped her back to consciousness.

Her eyes fluttered open and collided with Franco's furious gaze.

He sat up at once. "Didn't I tell you never to drink?"

Raising his voice, he ordered toward the door. "Someone, bring a sobering soup. Now!"

Then his hand clamped on her arm, yanking her upright. She stumbled as he dragged her into the bathroom.

The shower burst open, warm water drenching her body, but her heart only grew colder.

If not for the violence of his grip, she might have fooled herself into believing he cared. But no—what he cared about was that this face, this body, must never carry even the faintest trace of alcohol.

He left without looking back.

Over the rush of water, Jerissa whispered an answer to the question her father had thrown at her.

"Because he's just like you. He only keeps me around when I'm useful. The moment I'm not... he'll throw me away."

Pain spread through her chest, sharp and endless.

She remembered three years ago, the night of Franco's engagement banquet.

Juliette had sat at the piano, playing her carefully rehearsed melody—gentle, elegant, drawing sighs of admiration from the crowd. Jerald beamed with pride, as though he could already see his younger daughter as the future Mrs. Alba.

And Jerissa? She stood in the corner, invisible as always, quietly counting the champagne tower's tiers.

Until she felt a gaze.

She looked up—and fell into a pair of deep, commanding eyes.

The star of the evening.

Franco, the man who had expanded the Alba family empire in just a few short years, tall and aristocratic, aloof as snow—until his eyes landed on her.

At that moment, his careless gaze sharpened, lit by a hidden fire. And that one look sealed her fate.

To her shock, he chose her as the Alba family's bride.

Jerald's face had darkened. As always, he demanded she step aside for Juliette.

But for the first time in her life, Jerissa shook her head.

Because all her life, she had yielded simply because she was the elder sister. But this time—this time someone had chosen her. And she wouldn't give it up.

The wedding was a spectacle, shaking the entire city. Gilded invitations flooded the business world. Her gown was custom-made, designed personally by Franco and crafted for months until it was one-of-a-kind.

Afterward, he treated her like a treasure.

Luxury brands delivered new collections straight to her closet before she even glanced at the magazines. The most sought-after pastry chef in the city was whisked into their kitchen daily, making her favorite osmanthus cakes and almond pastries just for her.

Surrounded by his tenderness, she felt dizzy with happiness. Franco was like fate's gift, making up for twenty years of neglect.

Until the day she carried a pot of soup to his office—and overheard him talking with a friend through the closed door.

"The ones I've found lately—some sound like her, some have her figure. Want to take a look?"

Franco's voice answered, calm and indifferent. "Fine. Arrange it."

"You don't sound excited like before. Don't tell me you're actually falling for Jerissa? Although... I admit she's the closest to Nicole. Especially her eyes. Sometimes I almost mistake her for the real thing."

Silence ensued for a moment before his cold and merciless reply sounded.

"No matter how alike… she's not her. My Nicole is irreplaceable."