Chapter 2
The transplant surgery lasted seven hours. Damian didn't leave the observation deck once.
I watched him pace, check his phone, and occasionally press his forehead against the glass. Every time a surgeon looked up, Damian's breath hitched. Every time they returned to their work without signaling distress, he exhaled.
He never once looked back toward the room where my empty body lay.
When the lead surgeon finally emerged, pulling down his mask with a tired but satisfied expression, Damian practically sprinted toward him.
"The surgery was successful. Her body accepted the heart beautifully. She'll need to remain in the ICU for monitoring, but the prognosis is excellent."
Damian grabbed the surgeon's hand and shook it with both of his. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me."
The surgeon hesitated. "Mr. Blackwell, I want to express my condolences regarding your wife. The accident was truly tragic. If it's any consolation, her organ donation saved—"
"Yes, yes." Damian waved him off. "Arabella would have wanted this. She was generous like that."
Generous. He called me generous. As though I had volunteered to be slaughtered.
My name was Arabella Blackwell, née Thornton. And I did not consent to this.
Two hours later, Sienna woke up in the ICU. Damian was already at her bedside, holding her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
"Hey, beautiful," he murmured. "How do you feel?"
Sienna's eyes fluttered open. She looked pale, fragile, angelic—everything I apparently never was. Her lips curved into a weak smile.
"Did it work?"
"It worked. You have a brand-new heart."
My heart. She had my heart.
"And... Arabella?" Sienna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Something flickered in Damian's expression. For one brief second, I thought I saw guilt. But then Sienna squeezed his hand, and whatever shadow had crossed his face disappeared entirely.
"She's gone. Car accident. The doctors couldn't save her."
Sienna closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her temple. "That's so sad. She was always so sweet to me."
I had been sweet to her. When Sienna reappeared in Damian's life six months ago—conveniently running into him at a charity gala—I welcomed her with open arms. When Damian told me his old friend was sick and needed support, I cooked meals for her. I visited her in the hospital. I held her hand and told her everything would be okay.
And the whole time, they were measuring me. Sizing me up. Making sure my heart was healthy enough to steal.
"Don't cry," Damian said softly, wiping Sienna's tear away. "You need to rest. Everything's taken care of."
"The police?"
"Handled."
"The doctors?"
"They have no reason to suspect anything. It was a car accident, pure and simple."
Sienna's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're so good to me, Damian."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'd burn the world for you. You know that."
I stood at the foot of her bed—invisible, voiceless, worthless—and I felt something inside my spectral form crack.
The next morning, my parents arrived at the hospital. My mother's face was swollen from crying. My father looked like he'd aged a decade overnight.
They'd been told their daughter died in a car accident. A tragic, random act of fate. They had no idea their son-in-law was the architect of their grief.
"Where is she?" my mother demanded at the front desk. "Where is my daughter? I want to see her!"
A nurse led them to the morgue. My body had already been stitched back up—the gaping cavity in my chest sealed shut as if nothing had happened. But my mother knew. A mother always knows when something isn't right.
"Why does she look like this?" Mom grabbed the nurse's arm. "What happened to my baby?"
"Mrs. Thornton, your daughter's organs were donated per her registration. Her heart saved a life today."
My mother's knees buckled.
"Her heart? You took her heart?" Dad caught Mom before she hit the floor. His face was white as chalk. "She's only thirty-one! Who authorized this?"
"Her husband, Mr. Blackwell, confirmed consent as next of kin."
My father's jaw tightened. His hands trembled.
I screamed at them—screamed until my spectral throat was raw. But they couldn't hear me. They would never hear me again.
I watched him pace, check his phone, and occasionally press his forehead against the glass. Every time a surgeon looked up, Damian's breath hitched. Every time they returned to their work without signaling distress, he exhaled.
He never once looked back toward the room where my empty body lay.
When the lead surgeon finally emerged, pulling down his mask with a tired but satisfied expression, Damian practically sprinted toward him.
"The surgery was successful. Her body accepted the heart beautifully. She'll need to remain in the ICU for monitoring, but the prognosis is excellent."
Damian grabbed the surgeon's hand and shook it with both of his. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me."
The surgeon hesitated. "Mr. Blackwell, I want to express my condolences regarding your wife. The accident was truly tragic. If it's any consolation, her organ donation saved—"
"Yes, yes." Damian waved him off. "Arabella would have wanted this. She was generous like that."
Generous. He called me generous. As though I had volunteered to be slaughtered.
My name was Arabella Blackwell, née Thornton. And I did not consent to this.
Two hours later, Sienna woke up in the ICU. Damian was already at her bedside, holding her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
"Hey, beautiful," he murmured. "How do you feel?"
Sienna's eyes fluttered open. She looked pale, fragile, angelic—everything I apparently never was. Her lips curved into a weak smile.
"Did it work?"
"It worked. You have a brand-new heart."
My heart. She had my heart.
"And... Arabella?" Sienna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Something flickered in Damian's expression. For one brief second, I thought I saw guilt. But then Sienna squeezed his hand, and whatever shadow had crossed his face disappeared entirely.
"She's gone. Car accident. The doctors couldn't save her."
Sienna closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her temple. "That's so sad. She was always so sweet to me."
I had been sweet to her. When Sienna reappeared in Damian's life six months ago—conveniently running into him at a charity gala—I welcomed her with open arms. When Damian told me his old friend was sick and needed support, I cooked meals for her. I visited her in the hospital. I held her hand and told her everything would be okay.
And the whole time, they were measuring me. Sizing me up. Making sure my heart was healthy enough to steal.
"Don't cry," Damian said softly, wiping Sienna's tear away. "You need to rest. Everything's taken care of."
"The police?"
"Handled."
"The doctors?"
"They have no reason to suspect anything. It was a car accident, pure and simple."
Sienna's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're so good to me, Damian."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'd burn the world for you. You know that."
I stood at the foot of her bed—invisible, voiceless, worthless—and I felt something inside my spectral form crack.
The next morning, my parents arrived at the hospital. My mother's face was swollen from crying. My father looked like he'd aged a decade overnight.
They'd been told their daughter died in a car accident. A tragic, random act of fate. They had no idea their son-in-law was the architect of their grief.
"Where is she?" my mother demanded at the front desk. "Where is my daughter? I want to see her!"
A nurse led them to the morgue. My body had already been stitched back up—the gaping cavity in my chest sealed shut as if nothing had happened. But my mother knew. A mother always knows when something isn't right.
"Why does she look like this?" Mom grabbed the nurse's arm. "What happened to my baby?"
"Mrs. Thornton, your daughter's organs were donated per her registration. Her heart saved a life today."
My mother's knees buckled.
"Her heart? You took her heart?" Dad caught Mom before she hit the floor. His face was white as chalk. "She's only thirty-one! Who authorized this?"
"Her husband, Mr. Blackwell, confirmed consent as next of kin."
My father's jaw tightened. His hands trembled.
I screamed at them—screamed until my spectral throat was raw. But they couldn't hear me. They would never hear me again.