The hospital discharge papers felt heavy in my hands as Margaret Foster helped me into her car. The elderly woman had found me collapsed outside my apartment building last night, her weathered face creased with concern as she'd called the ambulance.
"You sure you don't want me to come up with you, dear?" she asked, her voice crackling through the phone speaker as we pulled up to my building. "After what happened yesterday..."
"I'll be fine," I lied, forcing a smile she couldn't see through the phone. "Thank you again, Margaret."
The truth was, I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to see what awaited me at home. The memory of those custom tissues scattered across the café table still burned in my mind, along with Lucien's indifference as I'd gasped for air.
My key turned in the lock with its familiar click, but something felt different the moment I stepped inside. The air held a strange tension, like the stillness before a storm.
"Lucien?" I called out, my voice echoing through our spacious apartment. "I'm home."
No answer came, but I heard movement from the kitchen—the clatter of pans and the sizzle of something cooking. My heart hammered against my ribs as I followed the sound.
I froze in the doorway.
There they were—Lucien and Carmen—not even bothering to pretend anymore. Carmen lounged on our couch, wearing nothing but my expensive silk robe, the one I'd saved for special occasions. The pale blue fabric that had once draped over my skin now clung to her curves, the price tag still visible where she hadn't fully tucked it in.
Lucien stood at the stove, cooking what smelled like bacon, wearing nothing but his underwear. His back was to me, but I could see the muscles in his shoulders tense as he sensed my presence.
"Melanie," he said without turning around. "You're back."
Carmen's laugh cut through the awkward silence, high and mocking. "Look at you, all surprised. Did you really think we'd stop just because you caught us?"
My fingers instinctively went to my throat, a reflex that had become second nature. "I think you should leave."
"Oh, honey." Carmen stood up, letting the robe fall open just enough to make her intentions clear. "This is where the fun starts."
Lucien finally turned around, spatula in hand, his expression cold and calculating. "We've been waiting for you."
Something in his tone made my blood run cold. This wasn't just an affair—this was something else entirely.
"You see," Carmen continued, picking up a small bottle from the coffee table—my emergency medication—"we've been having so much fun with these little babies."
My breath caught as she dangled the bottle between her fingers. "Those are mine."
"Were yours," she corrected, her smile widening. "Turns out, specialty medications like these are worth a fortune on the black market. We've been... diversifying our income streams."
Lucien set the spatula down carefully, his movements deliberate. "And that's just the beginning."
He walked to the dining table where a stack of papers lay scattered across the surface. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them sliding toward me.
"Property transfer agreements," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "You signed them during your last few hospital stays. Remember those consent forms I had you sign while you were sedated?"
My hands trembled as I picked up the papers, my vision blurring with tears and rage. Each document bore my signature—or what looked like my signature—transferring ownership of various assets to Lucien.
"You forged my signature," I whispered.
"I didn't have to forge much," he replied coldly. "You were so out of it most of the time, you barely knew what you were signing."
Carmen laughed again, the sound like broken glass. "God, you should see your face right now."
I sank onto the nearest chair, my legs no longer able to support me. Everything I thought I knew—everything I'd believed about my marriage, my friendship, my life—crumbled around me.
But somewhere beneath the devastation, a spark of something else ignited. Not hope—I was too far gone for that—but something colder and more determined.
Without another word, I reached for my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized months ago but never thought I'd use.
"Metropolitan Medical Research Foundation," a professional voice answered.
"I'd like to schedule an appointment," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "About a body donation."
As Lucien and Carmen exchanged confused glances, I continued, "Yes, I'd like to arrange for my remains to be used for research into severe allergy syndromes."
For the first time since I'd entered the apartment, I felt a flicker of control return. They could take my medication, steal my property, and destroy my marriage—but they couldn't take this final choice from me.
And as I made the arrangements, I found bitter satisfaction in knowing that while they'd taken everything else, they'd never control what happened to my body after death.
