Chapter 1
I died on an operating table so my husband's lover could live. They told me it was an emergency. They told me I was brain-dead from the car accident. But I was still here—floating above my own cracked-open chest—watching them harvest my beating heart.
The fluorescent lights of the OR buzzed above me. Below, surgeons worked methodically, their gloves slick with my blood. My ribcage was spread open like a butterfly pinned to a board.
And through the glass observation window above, my husband, Damian Blackwell, stood watching. Not with grief. Not with horror.
With relief.
His phone was pressed to his ear. Even as a spirit, I could hear every word.
"It's almost done, Sienna. They're prepping your transplant now. You're going to be okay. I promised you I'd fix this, didn't I?"
A pause. Then he laughed softly.
"No, no one suspects anything. The police report says she ran a red light. Open and shut case."
My soul went cold. Colder than the operating room. Colder than death itself.
I didn't run a red light. I remembered now—the truck that slammed into my driver's side came out of nowhere. No warning. No chance to react. It T-boned me at an intersection where I had the green.
Damian continued talking, his voice dropping to a murmur. "The doctors confirmed she's a perfect match. Same blood type, same tissue markers. It's like she was made for you, baby."
Made for her. My heart was made for her.
I had been married to Damian for five years. Five years of cooking his meals, managing his household, attending his galas with a perfect smile painted on my face. Five years of loving a man who apparently spent every single day plotting my murder.
The lead surgeon lifted my heart from my chest. It was still beating—kept alive by machines, by drugs, by the cruel efficiency of modern medicine.
"Perfect specimen," the surgeon murmured. "Prepare the recipient."
I watched them carry my heart—my actual, literal heart—down the corridor and into the adjacent OR, where Sienna Cole lay waiting. Damian's college sweetheart. The woman who'd conveniently developed a rare cardiac condition six months ago.
Six months. That was exactly when Damian started insisting I get a full physical. When he made me update my organ donor registration. When he took out that massive life insurance policy and told me it was "just in case."
I had thanked him for being so thoughtful.
God, I was so stupid.
My spirit drifted involuntarily toward Damian, tethered to him by some cruel cosmic leash. I couldn't go to my parents. I couldn't leave this hospital. I was bound to the man who murdered me.
Damian pocketed his phone and turned to face the other observation window—the one overlooking Sienna's operating room. A nurse was already wheeling my heart inside.
He pressed his palm against the glass, and he smiled.
"Almost there, my love," he whispered. "Almost there."
Behind him, my body lay abandoned on the table—chest hollow, eyes still open, staring at nothing. Nobody bothered to close them.
Nobody bothered to say goodbye.
The fluorescent lights of the OR buzzed above me. Below, surgeons worked methodically, their gloves slick with my blood. My ribcage was spread open like a butterfly pinned to a board.
And through the glass observation window above, my husband, Damian Blackwell, stood watching. Not with grief. Not with horror.
With relief.
His phone was pressed to his ear. Even as a spirit, I could hear every word.
"It's almost done, Sienna. They're prepping your transplant now. You're going to be okay. I promised you I'd fix this, didn't I?"
A pause. Then he laughed softly.
"No, no one suspects anything. The police report says she ran a red light. Open and shut case."
My soul went cold. Colder than the operating room. Colder than death itself.
I didn't run a red light. I remembered now—the truck that slammed into my driver's side came out of nowhere. No warning. No chance to react. It T-boned me at an intersection where I had the green.
Damian continued talking, his voice dropping to a murmur. "The doctors confirmed she's a perfect match. Same blood type, same tissue markers. It's like she was made for you, baby."
Made for her. My heart was made for her.
I had been married to Damian for five years. Five years of cooking his meals, managing his household, attending his galas with a perfect smile painted on my face. Five years of loving a man who apparently spent every single day plotting my murder.
The lead surgeon lifted my heart from my chest. It was still beating—kept alive by machines, by drugs, by the cruel efficiency of modern medicine.
"Perfect specimen," the surgeon murmured. "Prepare the recipient."
I watched them carry my heart—my actual, literal heart—down the corridor and into the adjacent OR, where Sienna Cole lay waiting. Damian's college sweetheart. The woman who'd conveniently developed a rare cardiac condition six months ago.
Six months. That was exactly when Damian started insisting I get a full physical. When he made me update my organ donor registration. When he took out that massive life insurance policy and told me it was "just in case."
I had thanked him for being so thoughtful.
God, I was so stupid.
My spirit drifted involuntarily toward Damian, tethered to him by some cruel cosmic leash. I couldn't go to my parents. I couldn't leave this hospital. I was bound to the man who murdered me.
Damian pocketed his phone and turned to face the other observation window—the one overlooking Sienna's operating room. A nurse was already wheeling my heart inside.
He pressed his palm against the glass, and he smiled.
"Almost there, my love," he whispered. "Almost there."
Behind him, my body lay abandoned on the table—chest hollow, eyes still open, staring at nothing. Nobody bothered to close them.
Nobody bothered to say goodbye.