Chapter 10
The trial began on a Tuesday in October.
I hadn't seen Roman in six weeks. When they brought him in — handcuffed, in a suit that still fit perfectly — my body went cold.
He looked good. That was the worst part. He looked like the man who'd handed me peonies and called me beautiful. Like the man I'd loved.
His eyes found me immediately across the courtroom. And he smiled. Warm. Gentle.
Like nothing had happened. Like we were still in our kitchen and he was about to hand me a smoothie.
I forced myself to hold his gaze. I would not look away.
The prosecution opened with my medical evidence. The scars. The lab results. The missing kidney. Every extraction logged and dated. The courtroom was silent as Dr. Chen testified, her voice clinical but her hands shaking.
Then the footage played. The jurors watched Roman drink his coffee while I was cut open. One woman covered her mouth. A man in the back row left the room.
Roman's expression never changed. He watched the video of himself like it was a nature documentary — mildly interesting, emotionally distant.
His defense argued medical necessity. They argued implied consent — that I'd agreed to be a donor and simply changed my mind after the marriage soured. They produced forged documents, alleged psychological manipulation on my part.
It was theater. Everyone could see it was theater.
On day three, I took the stand.
The prosecutor walked me through everything. Our meeting — how Roman had "accidentally" spilled coffee on himself at the café where he knew I'd be, because he'd already had me researched and blood-typed through a corrupt lab technician. Our courtship — fast, intense, designed to overwhelm me before I could think critically. The marriage — how the procedures began within months.
"Can you describe the first time you woke up with unexplained symptoms?" Sandra asked.
"Three months after the wedding," I said. "I was exhausted. Bruised. Roman said I'd been sleepwalking — that I'd fallen. He took me to Dr. Voss, who ran tests and told me I was anemic. He recommended 'iron infusions.' I went every two weeks."
"And what were those infusions actually?"
"Blood draws. They were taking blood, not giving it."
I described waking up from the kidney surgery. How Roman had cried at my bedside — tears I now knew were performance. How he'd brought me flowers every day of my recovery.
Then the defense attorney stood.
"Mrs. Hale," he said. "Isn't it true that you have a history of anxiety and paranoia?"
"Induced by being secretly drugged and operated on for three years, yes."
"Isn't it true that you attempted to harm your husband's reputation out of jealousy toward his friendship with Ms. Montague?"
"His friendship? He was funneling my organs to her."
"No further questions."
It was a weak defense, and they knew it.
On day four, Margot took the stand.
She was thin, weathered, but steady. She'd been living under a false name in another state for four years. She rolled up her sleeve and showed the courtroom her scars — identical to mine. Same location. Same surgical technique.
"He told me he loved me," Margot said simply. "While he took me apart piece by piece."
I watched Roman during her testimony. For the first time, his mask cracked. Not guilt — annoyance. Like a chess player watching his strategy unravel.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
Guilty on all counts.
Roman stood motionless as the verdict was read. Then, slowly, he turned to look at me.
And he mouthed: *This isn't over.*
I hadn't seen Roman in six weeks. When they brought him in — handcuffed, in a suit that still fit perfectly — my body went cold.
He looked good. That was the worst part. He looked like the man who'd handed me peonies and called me beautiful. Like the man I'd loved.
His eyes found me immediately across the courtroom. And he smiled. Warm. Gentle.
Like nothing had happened. Like we were still in our kitchen and he was about to hand me a smoothie.
I forced myself to hold his gaze. I would not look away.
The prosecution opened with my medical evidence. The scars. The lab results. The missing kidney. Every extraction logged and dated. The courtroom was silent as Dr. Chen testified, her voice clinical but her hands shaking.
Then the footage played. The jurors watched Roman drink his coffee while I was cut open. One woman covered her mouth. A man in the back row left the room.
Roman's expression never changed. He watched the video of himself like it was a nature documentary — mildly interesting, emotionally distant.
His defense argued medical necessity. They argued implied consent — that I'd agreed to be a donor and simply changed my mind after the marriage soured. They produced forged documents, alleged psychological manipulation on my part.
It was theater. Everyone could see it was theater.
On day three, I took the stand.
The prosecutor walked me through everything. Our meeting — how Roman had "accidentally" spilled coffee on himself at the café where he knew I'd be, because he'd already had me researched and blood-typed through a corrupt lab technician. Our courtship — fast, intense, designed to overwhelm me before I could think critically. The marriage — how the procedures began within months.
"Can you describe the first time you woke up with unexplained symptoms?" Sandra asked.
"Three months after the wedding," I said. "I was exhausted. Bruised. Roman said I'd been sleepwalking — that I'd fallen. He took me to Dr. Voss, who ran tests and told me I was anemic. He recommended 'iron infusions.' I went every two weeks."
"And what were those infusions actually?"
"Blood draws. They were taking blood, not giving it."
I described waking up from the kidney surgery. How Roman had cried at my bedside — tears I now knew were performance. How he'd brought me flowers every day of my recovery.
Then the defense attorney stood.
"Mrs. Hale," he said. "Isn't it true that you have a history of anxiety and paranoia?"
"Induced by being secretly drugged and operated on for three years, yes."
"Isn't it true that you attempted to harm your husband's reputation out of jealousy toward his friendship with Ms. Montague?"
"His friendship? He was funneling my organs to her."
"No further questions."
It was a weak defense, and they knew it.
On day four, Margot took the stand.
She was thin, weathered, but steady. She'd been living under a false name in another state for four years. She rolled up her sleeve and showed the courtroom her scars — identical to mine. Same location. Same surgical technique.
"He told me he loved me," Margot said simply. "While he took me apart piece by piece."
I watched Roman during her testimony. For the first time, his mask cracked. Not guilt — annoyance. Like a chess player watching his strategy unravel.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
Guilty on all counts.
Roman stood motionless as the verdict was read. Then, slowly, he turned to look at me.
And he mouthed: *This isn't over.*