Years into our marriage, when the critical condition notice for me arrived, Caleb Reed didn’t hesitate. He suggested mortgaging our house. To cover the sky-high medical costs, he, who once held himself so high, now toiled day and night, stripped of his pride. I couldn’t bear to be a burden on him and was preparing to give up on treatment. Then, a financial headline froze me in place. *“Reed Empire’s Heir Returns for Love! Takes Control of Multi-Billion-Dollar Company to Save His Beloved’s Life!”* The photo in the headline showed Caleb’s tired but deeply affectionate profile. I trembled, thinking this was his final desperate fight for *me*. But then the camera panned, and the woman in the sterile hospital gown was the same girl from the faded photo tucked away in his wallet. And I, I was foolish enough to believe he truly loved me. When Caleb pushed open the door, a chill from the late night swept in with him. He took off his cheap jacket, his face etched with exhaustion. “How are you feeling today?” He expertly poured a cup of hot water and brought it to my bedside. I shook my head, too weak to even speak. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling my forehead to check my temperature. “The doctors say the situation isn’t optimistic, but Claire, don’t be scared. I’ve already sorted out the money.” He pulled a document from inside his jacket, carefully unfolding it. “I’ve already… mortgaged the house.” My heart constricted sharply. “You…” “Don’t say anything foolish.” He cut me off, as if expecting me to be moved by his gesture again. “Nothing is more important than you. As long as you get better, I’d be willing to sleep under a bridge.” He spoke with such earnestness, such deep affection. If I hadn’t seen that news just a few hours earlier, I would have believed every word. Caleb Reed, the scion of Reed Industries. My husband, who had played the role of a broke student for five years. “Caleb, do we… really have to come to this?” I asked, my voice dry. He was silent for a moment, then pulled out another document. It was a voluntary organ donation agreement. “Claire, the doctors said that given your condition, we might need to prepare for the worst.” His voice was light, but every word pierced my heart. “I know you’re the kindest person. The doctor told me today about a girl named Sarah Miller. She’s been waiting for a suitable heart for a very, very long time.” Sarah Miller. He finally said the name. The girl in the faded photo in his wallet’s hidden compartment, worn smooth from countless touches. “She’s really pitiful. She’s been sick since childhood, always living in pain.” He calmly recounted someone else’s story, a story that was, in fact, about my life and death. “If you… I mean, *if* you were to donate your heart to her, it would be a continuation of life, wouldn’t it?” I looked at this man who seemed to be losing his patience, not even bothering to craft another lie. He knew I was terminally ill and couldn’t afford the exorbitant treatment costs. He also believed, with certainty, that I loved him beyond words and would fulfill his every request. “So, mortgaging the house was to prepare for *her* surgery?” I asked bluntly. He paused, seemingly not expecting such a direct question. Then, he offered a sorrowful smile. “Claire, how could you think that of me? I’m doing this to cure *you*!” He became deeply affectionate again. “But your illness… you know, hope is slim. I just thought, on the off chance, if we fail, as the doctor said, we could save another life. It would be a way for a part of you to live on, wouldn’t it?” He held my hand, his hands warm and strong. “Just for my sake, okay? I don’t want you to leave with regrets.” “Sign this first, then we’ll fight together, alright?” I pulled my cold hand away. “I’m tired. I want to sleep for a bit.” A flicker of impatience crossed his face, but it was quickly masked by tenderness. “Okay, you rest. Don’t overthink things.” He placed the agreement and a pen neatly on my bedside table. In a spot I’d see the moment I opened my eyes. He got up, put on his jacket, and prepared to leave. At the door, he suddenly turned back and added, “Oh, and the doctor introduced me to the patient, Sarah. She’s in the VIP room on the top floor. If you want, I can arrange for you two to meet. She’s a really sweet girl.” With that, he closed the door. I stared at the agreement and the pen he’d left behind. It felt like a sharp blade, slowly carving into my heart.
The next day, a young nurse came to change my dressing. She was quick and efficient with her hands, but her mouth never stopped. “Ms. Davies, you really need to take good care of yourself. Your husband is so good to you.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to respond. “He comes to stay with you every day, running around for your medical bills. Everyone else is so jealous.” Jealous? Yes, how enviable. “Let me tell you, that lady on the top floor, in the VIP suite, she’s rich, but she’s truly pathetic.” The nurse lowered her voice, gossiping. “I heard her boyfriend is also a big shot – the scion of Reed Industries!” My fingers curled. “But honestly, I don’t think he cares that much about Ms. Miller. He’s busy with company affairs all day, only visits occasionally. Not like your husband, who practically wants to be glued to your side twenty-four-seven.” The nurse’s words dragged me back into my memories. I remembered when we first got together, Caleb was a broke student with nothing to his name. He would work odd jobs for a week just to buy me a lipstick I liked. He said, “Claire, when I’m rich, I promise I’ll give you the best life.” But later, after we graduated, he turned down all the high-paying offers, choosing the most ordinary job. He said, “Claire, I don’t want to work too hard. I just want to come home early every day to cook for you.” I believed him. I thought he didn’t care for wealth or status, that he loved me more than anything. Now, looking back, it was all just an act. He didn’t love me; he only cared about saving his Sarah’s life. “Ms. Davies? Ms. Davies? What’s wrong?” The nurse’s voice pulled me back to reality. I opened my eyes; she was looking at me with concern. “Did I say something wrong?” I shook my head. “No, just thinking about a few things.” The nurse sighed in relief, packed her things, and prepared to leave. “Your husband just called. He said he’ll be late tonight and not to wait up for him.” “Okay.” I replied. I knew he probably wouldn’t come tonight. Sarah Miller’s condition must be critical now, more important than me, his backup organ bank. In the evening, Caleb indeed didn’t show up. I propped myself up, slowly sitting. The agreement was still on the bedside table. Next to it lay my favorite poetry collection, the first gift Caleb ever gave me. He’d said, “Claire, in my eyes, you’re like a clear poem, I adore you so much.” I reached for the book. Its pages had yellowed, but it still held our unique scent. I opened the front cover, where his bold, sweeping handwriting read: *To my lifelong love, Claire Davies.* How ironic. Just then, the hospital room door opened. Caleb stood in the doorway. He saw the book in my hand and the still-blank agreement beside it. When he walked in, he carried a faint scent of perfume and a hint of red wine, strikingly clear in my sterile room. He didn't ask if I’d eaten, walking straight to the bed and picking up the poetry collection. After absentmindedly flipping through a few pages, he finally couldn’t help but ask, “Claire, have you heard any gossip?” His question was calm. I didn’t answer, just watched him. Watched this stranger I shared my bed with. “Gossip spreads fast in a place like this. Just hear it and forget it, don’t take it to heart.” He was still playing the role of a considerate husband, comforting his emotional wife. “Who is Sarah Miller?” I finally spoke, mustering immense courage. His movements stopped. A few seconds later, he closed the book and set it aside. “To be honest, she’s just a friend of mine.” He answered airily. “A friend you need *my* heart to save?” I pressed. The air instantly solidified. The gentle expression on Caleb Reed’s face finally shifted. He stared at me, no longer bothering to pretend. “Yes.” He admitted it. “She’s really pitiful, she’s lived with illness since she was a child. Don’t you have any sympathy?” He countered. “Why should I sympathize with her? Sympathize with her using *my* life?” My emotions flared, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. “Claire Davies!” He raised his voice. “What kind of attitude is that? I’m discussing this with you, not begging you!” The impatience in his eyes was no longer hidden. “Are you sick, and your mind’s gone foggy too? When did you become so selfish?” Selfish? For him, I’d given up so many opportunities that could have given me a better life. For him, I wore cheap clothes, riding the bus, living on a shoestring budget for five years. Now, he wanted my life to save another woman, and then had the audacity to accuse me of being selfish. “Caleb Reed, you truly disgust me.” *“CRACK!”* A sharp sound. The poetry collection in his hand was violently thrown to the floor, its pages scattering everywhere.
“Don't you dare be ungrateful, Claire!” His chest heaved violently. “Do you think you’re in any position to bargain with me now? Without me, you can’t even afford tomorrow’s medical bills!” This was the first time he had so blatantly threatened me with money. “Do you even deserve to look at these things in your current state?” He saw me staring at the floor, then pointed at the scattered poetry collection. “A dying person shouldn’t have any sentiment for our past!” His words tore my heart to shreds. In his mind, I was just a dying person, unworthy of anything beautiful anymore. I gave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. “So, you’re threatening me now? If I don’t sign, you’ll stop my treatment?” He probably hadn’t seen me like this before; he was momentarily stunned. But he quickly regained his cold composure. “I’m just making you face reality. Signing it is good for all of us.” He said “all of us,” which included Sarah Miller, but definitely not me. Just then, his phone rang. He answered, his impatient expression instantly turning anxious. “What? Her condition worsened? I’ll be right up!” He hung up, shooting me a furious glare. There was no love or tenderness left in his eyes. He advanced on me, step by step. “Claire Davies, now, immediately, sign it!” I leaned against the headboard, watching him coldly. Watching him frantic and distraught over another woman. Just as I’d suspected, he’d dropped all pretense because Sarah probably didn't have much time left to wait. “What if I don’t sign?” “You have no choice.” He squeezed the words through clenched teeth. “Claire, don’t make me force you.” He started calling me by my name again, a cruel gentleness masking his true intentions. “Sarah can’t wait any longer. Help her, and you’ll be helping me.” He finally spoke his true thoughts. Not for any good deed, not for any continuation of my life, but simply to help *him*. To help him keep the woman he loved. “I spent five miserable years with you, Claire. Even if you don’t think for yourself, you should think for me, shouldn’t you?” “These five years, do you know what I gave up? I, the scion of the Reed family, lived with you in that tiny, rundown apartment, endured those tough years. I’ve done more than enough!” He completely tore off his disguise, revealing his true, ugly self. “It was all for Sarah! I approached you, married you, tolerated you – it was all for this day!” “The doctor said you had a weak constitution, that you wouldn’t live long, so I patiently waited for you!” “I thought once you died, I could naturally get your heart. I never expected you to drag it out for so long!” So that was it. My entire existence, from the beginning, had been a meticulously planned deception. A five-year performance staged solely to extract my heart. He saw my prolonged silence and seemed to realize he’d said too much. “Claire, struggling now is meaningless.” He picked up the agreement and the pen, pushing them into my hand. “Sign it. This is the last thing you can do for me.” “Is there anything you need to say, or any unfulfilled wishes you have in this life? I promise I’ll take care of them later!” I lowered my head, looking at the agreement in my hand. *Donor: Claire Davies.* *Recipient: Sarah Miller.* What a clean, cut-and-dry transaction. My hand trembled. Caleb thought I had given in. He leaned down, whispering into my ear. “Good girl, sign it. I’ll remember your kindness.” His breath on my earlobe made me feel a wave of nausea. I gripped the pen tightly. Then I looked up at him and smiled. He froze. The next second, I didn’t put pen to paper. Instead, I used every ounce of strength I had to tear the agreement in half. The tearing sound was deafening in the silent room. He hadn’t even reacted yet. I then tore those two halves into four, then eight… Countless pieces of paper fluttered from my fingertips, scattering across the floor. I dropped the pen; it rolled a few times on the ground, stopping at Caleb Reed’s feet. “Caleb Reed, you wish!” Before, I would have thought I had no money for treatment, no hope of getting better. But now, Caleb had inherited a fortune for a critically ill Sarah Miller. Logically, half of it should be mine. Why couldn’t I live?
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