Chapter 4
That night, Roman was more attentive than ever.
He cooked dinner himself — seared steak, spinach salad, everything designed to boost my blood levels for Thursday. He poured me red wine and told me stories about our early days together.
"Remember our first date?" He smiled across the candlelight. "You spilled coffee all over my shirt, and I knew right then."
*Knew I was the right blood type,* I thought.
"I remember," I said softly. "Best day of my life."
He reached across the table. "After Thursday, let's take a vacation. Anywhere you want. You deserve the world, Camille."
After Thursday, I'd be dead. And he'd be on that vacation with Elise.
I excused myself to the bathroom and texted Nadia: *Thursday is the deadline. I need the evidence package ready by Wednesday. Everything goes to the press and the DA simultaneously.*
Her reply was instant: *Already done. But Camille — GET OUT OF THAT HOUSE.*
I couldn't. Not yet. If I ran now, Roman would know. He'd destroy the evidence, disappear with Elise, and I'd spend whatever time I had left looking over my shoulder.
No. I needed him to believe I was still his obedient little harvest until the very last second.
Wednesday morning, I woke to Roman staring at me.
Not sleeping. Not just waking up. Staring. Watching me like a scientist observing a specimen.
"Morning, beautiful," he said when my eyes opened. "How'd you sleep?"
"Perfectly," I lied.
"Good." He kissed my nose. "Big day tomorrow. I need you well-rested."
He left for work. I immediately pulled out the burner phone Nadia had given me.
"It's done," Nadia said. "Dr. Chen's full report, your medical records, the photos of your scars, the forged consent forms — everything's packaged and ready. Wednesday at 5 PM, it goes to three news outlets and the district attorney simultaneously. I also have a lawyer ready to file criminal charges."
"Good."
"Camille, please. Come stay with me tonight."
"One more night," I said. "I need one more piece of evidence."
"What could you possibly still need?"
"His confession."
That afternoon, I did something I'd never done. I visited Elise Montague.
The private facility was pristine and white, tucked into the hills above the city. Roman was paying $40,000 a month to keep her there. I knew because I'd found the financial records.
I signed in as a friend. The receptionist didn't bat an eye.
Elise's room was filled with flowers. She was thin, pale, but beautiful in the way dying women sometimes are — all cheekbones and enormous eyes.
She looked up when I entered, confused.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Camille. Roman's wife."
The color drained from her face.
"Oh God," she whispered.
I sat in the chair beside her bed. "You know what he's been doing to me."
Elise's eyes filled with tears. "He said you were a paid donor. He said you knew. He said you were compensated — that you agreed—"
"He took my kidney while I was unconscious." My voice was steady. "I have scars I never consented to. I was sedated and operated on repeatedly for three years. I didn't know until four days ago."
Elise pressed her hands over her mouth. Her whole body shook.
"He told me you were willing," she sobbed. "He told me—"
"Elise." I leaned forward. "Thursday's procedure will kill me. He knows it. I need you to help me."
She stared at me, tears streaming. "What do you need?"
"Text him. Ask him what happens to me after Thursday. Get him to admit what he's doing. He'll tell you the truth — he always does."
Her hands trembled as she picked up her phone. I watched her type: *Roman, I've been thinking. After Thursday, what happens to Camille? I need to know she'll be okay.*
His reply came in under a minute: *Don't worry about her. After Thursday, she won't be a problem anymore. Her body can't sustain another extraction, but this last one will give you everything you need to reach remission. I'll handle the rest.*
Elise: *Handle it how?*
Roman: *The procedure will be enough. She won't wake up. I've made sure of it. Dr. Voss will list it as complications from anemia. No one will question it. And then it'll be just us, Elise. Finally.*
Elise turned the phone toward me. Her face was ash-white.
"He's going to murder you," she whispered.
I photographed the messages with steady hands. "Yes. But not anymore."
I stood, tucked the burner phone away, and looked at this woman — this woman my husband was willing to kill for.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I'm sorry you're sick. But I'm not dying for you."
I left Elise sobbing in her hospital bed and drove home to spend one final night beside my husband.
He cooked dinner himself — seared steak, spinach salad, everything designed to boost my blood levels for Thursday. He poured me red wine and told me stories about our early days together.
"Remember our first date?" He smiled across the candlelight. "You spilled coffee all over my shirt, and I knew right then."
*Knew I was the right blood type,* I thought.
"I remember," I said softly. "Best day of my life."
He reached across the table. "After Thursday, let's take a vacation. Anywhere you want. You deserve the world, Camille."
After Thursday, I'd be dead. And he'd be on that vacation with Elise.
I excused myself to the bathroom and texted Nadia: *Thursday is the deadline. I need the evidence package ready by Wednesday. Everything goes to the press and the DA simultaneously.*
Her reply was instant: *Already done. But Camille — GET OUT OF THAT HOUSE.*
I couldn't. Not yet. If I ran now, Roman would know. He'd destroy the evidence, disappear with Elise, and I'd spend whatever time I had left looking over my shoulder.
No. I needed him to believe I was still his obedient little harvest until the very last second.
Wednesday morning, I woke to Roman staring at me.
Not sleeping. Not just waking up. Staring. Watching me like a scientist observing a specimen.
"Morning, beautiful," he said when my eyes opened. "How'd you sleep?"
"Perfectly," I lied.
"Good." He kissed my nose. "Big day tomorrow. I need you well-rested."
He left for work. I immediately pulled out the burner phone Nadia had given me.
"It's done," Nadia said. "Dr. Chen's full report, your medical records, the photos of your scars, the forged consent forms — everything's packaged and ready. Wednesday at 5 PM, it goes to three news outlets and the district attorney simultaneously. I also have a lawyer ready to file criminal charges."
"Good."
"Camille, please. Come stay with me tonight."
"One more night," I said. "I need one more piece of evidence."
"What could you possibly still need?"
"His confession."
That afternoon, I did something I'd never done. I visited Elise Montague.
The private facility was pristine and white, tucked into the hills above the city. Roman was paying $40,000 a month to keep her there. I knew because I'd found the financial records.
I signed in as a friend. The receptionist didn't bat an eye.
Elise's room was filled with flowers. She was thin, pale, but beautiful in the way dying women sometimes are — all cheekbones and enormous eyes.
She looked up when I entered, confused.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Camille. Roman's wife."
The color drained from her face.
"Oh God," she whispered.
I sat in the chair beside her bed. "You know what he's been doing to me."
Elise's eyes filled with tears. "He said you were a paid donor. He said you knew. He said you were compensated — that you agreed—"
"He took my kidney while I was unconscious." My voice was steady. "I have scars I never consented to. I was sedated and operated on repeatedly for three years. I didn't know until four days ago."
Elise pressed her hands over her mouth. Her whole body shook.
"He told me you were willing," she sobbed. "He told me—"
"Elise." I leaned forward. "Thursday's procedure will kill me. He knows it. I need you to help me."
She stared at me, tears streaming. "What do you need?"
"Text him. Ask him what happens to me after Thursday. Get him to admit what he's doing. He'll tell you the truth — he always does."
Her hands trembled as she picked up her phone. I watched her type: *Roman, I've been thinking. After Thursday, what happens to Camille? I need to know she'll be okay.*
His reply came in under a minute: *Don't worry about her. After Thursday, she won't be a problem anymore. Her body can't sustain another extraction, but this last one will give you everything you need to reach remission. I'll handle the rest.*
Elise: *Handle it how?*
Roman: *The procedure will be enough. She won't wake up. I've made sure of it. Dr. Voss will list it as complications from anemia. No one will question it. And then it'll be just us, Elise. Finally.*
Elise turned the phone toward me. Her face was ash-white.
"He's going to murder you," she whispered.
I photographed the messages with steady hands. "Yes. But not anymore."
I stood, tucked the burner phone away, and looked at this woman — this woman my husband was willing to kill for.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I'm sorry you're sick. But I'm not dying for you."
I left Elise sobbing in her hospital bed and drove home to spend one final night beside my husband.