Chapter 1

The latest recipient matching sequences have just been updated on the back-end interface of the National Organ Allocation Network.

In this system that represents life and death, just yesterday I was at the highest priority, being matched with the life-saving heart that perfectly matched my antigen.

But now, the person who took the lead and succeeded me in getting that heart is "Liam , " my wife's first love .

At the bottom of the page, the system log clearly records the complete change process: Liam was submitted with an "exceptional application for worsening condition" . Since the conventional algorithm cannot cover all clinical emergencies, the hospital's organ transplant ethics committee intervened for comprehensive evaluation.

Ultimately, based on a clinical risk assessment endorsed by the department head, the committee approved the reallocation of cardiac donors.

The final signatory to that assessment report was Sarah Hayes.

My wife, using her impeccable professional authority, personally and legally relinquished my survival quota to someone else.

Waves of dizziness from the lack of oxygen washed over me. I clung tightly to the metal bar of the portable IV stand, using it to barely support my swaying body.

A heavy, leaden pressure was rapidly spreading upwards in my chest.

In my other hand, I was still clutching a newly printed core clinical data model. To help her secure that multi-million yuan national medical grant next month, I endured the excruciating pain of heart failure and stayed up for a full forty-eight hours to perfect this groundbreaking paper, which was ready to be published in a top-tier journal.

I originally just came to her office to surprise her and check on the surgical procedure.

I just habitually unlocked her computer screen, which she hadn't turned off, but I never expected that what I was about to encounter was my own death sentence.

The door was then pushed open.

Sarah walked in wearing a spotless white lab coat. She was still dressed in her usual sharp and efficient manner. When she saw me standing in front of the lit screen, her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

She didn't get angry; she simply walked over quickly and pressed the power button on the monitor.

“You shouldn’t be looking at this; it’s a serious violation of the hospital’s confidentiality regulations.” Her voice was cold, and my heart was even colder .

I tried to take a deep breath; the extreme lack of oxygen made my vision blur at the edges. I could only grip the IV stand tighter, the metal wheels screeching against the wooden floor.

“Sarah…why did you submit that assessment to the ethics committee?” I asked, my voice trembling, each word accompanied by heavy breathing. “Liam’s physical condition is not sufficient to support the conclusion that ‘cardiogenic shock is predicted to occur.’ Did you subjectively exaggerate his risk rating to prioritize him?”

Sarah pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling out a disinfectant wipe to clean the corner of the table, her tone still that of a skilled clinician:

"Liam experienced frequent premature ventricular contractions this morning. Although his core indicators have not yet fallen below the critical value, the trend of his condition deteriorating is very obvious. As for you, Ivan, you are currently connected to a portable cardiac pump 24 hours a day. Your condition is stable, and the committee is more inclined to allocate resources to patients whose condition is highly uncertain."

My eyes were bloodshot and red. "You know better than anyone that the machine is only maintaining a superficial appearance ! You used the emphasis of the systematic evaluation criteria to describe me, who was 'stable' under drug intervention, as a patient who could continue to wait. You cut off my only source of nutrition; I won't even survive this month."

I thought that even if she didn't love me, she would at least maintain a bottom line towards me, just like she would treat any other patient.

Sarah looked up, her eyes showing not a trace of guilt, but only displeasure at having her authority questioned.

“Ivan, your emotions are clouding your judgment. Current data models show that as long as you don’t experience drastic emotional fluctuations, your vital signs are likely to hold until the next donor. I’m making the most rational medical triage. You are my husband, don’t misinterpret medical decisions based on clinical probability as persecution against you.”

She didn't even give me a chance to refute, continuing in that flat, emotionless tone:

"There's one more thing . Liam is completely innocent. He felt very guilty after hearing the news , thinking that he had taken your heart, which caused his blood pressure to be unstable. This poses a potential risk to the surgery. Later, when you have some free time, go to his ward and comfort him. I don't want my patients to go to the operating table with psychological burdens."

In those few short seconds, the office was so quiet that the only sound was the faint hum of the central air conditioning.

Sarah became increasingly blurry in my sight.

I suddenly felt a continuous throbbing in the depths of my heart.

Cold sweat dripped down his forehead and onto the floor.

I looked at the woman in front of me, who was both familiar and unfamiliar. There was no argument, nor any hysteria.

"Okay." I heard my own hoarse voice, so soft it seemed it might dissipate at any moment, "I'll go."

Sarah was clearly surprised that I would comply so easily; she raised an eyebrow slightly.

But just as she was about to speak, I could no longer hold the cold IV stand, and I suddenly bent over, completely exhausted.

The heavy mobile frame crashed to the ground, causing the nearby emergency trolley to make a dull thud as it was struck.

Large spurts of pink, frothy, bloody phlegm flowed uncontrollably from my mouth, followed by crimson stains that splattered onto Sarah's pristine white coat.

"Ivan?!"

Her instincts as a cardiologist were faster than her emotional reaction; she rushed over, caught my limp body, and laid me flat on the floor.

Her fingers pressed precisely and firmly against the artery in my neck, while she called for emergency help, her voice rapid: "Director's office! Bring the ambulance and intubation kit! The patient has acute left heart failure complicated by severe pulmonary edema!"

But as she finished calling out my name and bent down to examine me, she looked at my lips, which were oozing blood, and her professional composure was finally mixed with obsessive anger.

“Ivan, open your eyes! Keep breathing!” Her hand slapped my cheek hard, her voice trembling : “I warned you not to have extreme emotional fluctuations! Are you really going to humiliate yourself for a spot? Are you risking your life to spite me?!”

The noise of blood rushing into my trachea was amplified infinitely in my eardrums, and the excruciating pain in my chest cavity was gradually being replaced by extreme hypoxia.

I looked at her face amidst the stench of blood and foam.

Her resuscitation procedures were extremely standardized. However, her truest emotion at that moment was still anger ; she was blaming me for not following medical advice .

Even when I was on the verge of death, she never reflected on it.

"Where's the defibrillator?! Faster!" She pressed hard on my chest, trying to use her proud medical skills to forcibly pull me back from the brink of death.

As I listened to the increasingly loud sound of the ambulance wheels in the corridor, I slowly loosened my grip on her clothes.

For seven years, I prayed every day that I would survive. But in this moment of utter darkness, feeling my heartbeat grow weaker and weaker, I felt only that if this relationship and my heart could both stop beating at the same time…

For me, this is the best possible relief.