Chapter 3

The night before the surgery, Ethan came home—a rare occurrence.

I sat on the living room couch, hands wrapped around a mug of hot water. My stomach was killing me. Hot water was the only thing that helped anymore.

He walked in, shrugged off his suit jacket, and tossed it carelessly onto the sofa. His fingers worked at his tie, loosening the knot.

"Don't eat breakfast tomorrow. You need to fast for the procedure."

His tone was flat. Clinical. Like he was briefing an employee.

I looked up at him. "Ethan... what if I said I don't want to go through with this?"

He froze mid-motion. His eyes went cold.

"Emily, I thought we settled this."

"Settled what? That you're trading my life for Zoey's?"

My voice came out soft, but it trembled with everything I'd been holding back. "Ethan, I'm a person too. I feel pain. I'm scared of dying."

He laughed—short, bitter. He stepped closer and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"Now you're scared? You should've thought about that before you schemed your way into my bed."

There it was again. That accusation.

Ten years. Ten years, and he still believed I'd planned that night.

The truth? His friend had gotten me drunk. Dropped me in his room like a gift-wrapped package.

When I woke up, Ethan had already decided I was a calculating bitch.

"I didn't—" I tried to explain. Like I'd tried a thousand times before.

"Enough."

He cut me off, voice sharp with irritation. "Emily, drop the act. Tomorrow, you'll do the surgery. Afterward, I'll give you money—enough for you and your mother to live comfortably. Then we're done. Clean slate."

Clean slate.

Ten years of my life. A lifetime of love. My literal heart.

All reduced to a transaction.

I stared at his face—so close, yet so far. The face I'd loved through my entire youth. Now all I saw was contempt and indifference.

"Ethan," I asked quietly, one last flicker of hope still burning somewhere deep inside, "if I die on that operating table tomorrow... would you care? Even a little?"

He let go of my chin and straightened up, as if I'd said something absurd.

"Emily, your life isn't worth that much drama. Don't threaten me with death. It won't work."

He turned toward the stairs. "Get some rest. And don't be late tomorrow. Or I'll make sure you and your mother regret it."

His footsteps echoed up to the second floor, then disappeared.

I stayed on the couch, frozen in place, for what felt like hours.

The sky outside darkened completely. The pain in my stomach returned, sharp and relentless.

Finally, I stood and went to my room.

From the bottom drawer of my nightstand, I pulled out an old journal.

The leather cover was worn, the pages filled with dense handwriting. Nine years' worth of entries. From the first flutter of a crush at sixteen to the hollowed-out numbness at twenty-five.

I flipped to a blank page and picked up my pen.

"Ethan, if you're reading this, I'm probably already gone."

"There are things I never got to say while I was alive. Now, I finally can."

"That rainy night in the alley when we were sixteen—I meant it when I said I'd stay by your side forever. Not because you were a Nelson. But because you were Ethan. The Ethan who smiled at me. Who called me Emily."

"That Ethan only exists in my memory now. You lost him somewhere along the way."

"The day I got my diagnosis, I sat in the hospital for hours. I wanted to call you. I wanted to hear you say, 'Don't be scared. I'm here.' But I never dialed. Because I knew you wouldn't care."

"When Zoey needed a heart, I was the first person you thought of. I don't blame you. Really. To you, I've always been a tool. Tools get used when they're useful. Discarded when they're broken. It makes sense."

"But Ethan... did it ever occur to you that tools can feel pain? That they get tired? That they... want to be loved?"

Tears fell onto the page, smudging the ink.

I took a shaky breath and kept writing.

"I agreed to the surgery. Not because I gave up. Not because I accepted my fate. But because I realized something—if my life means nothing to you, then I'll give it to the person you care about most."

"I want you to remember, forever, that the heart beating in Zoey's chest once belonged to me."

"Every time you hold her, kiss her, listen to her heartbeat—I want you to think of me."

"Ethan, this is my final revenge."

"With my death, I curse you to a lifetime of unrest."

I set the pen down. Every ounce of strength drained from my body.

I reached up and unclasped the necklace I'd worn for years—a tarnished silver chain with a worn cross pendant and a blessed saint's medal.

Ethan and I had gotten them blessed together at a church once.

He'd lost his ages ago. I'd kept mine, clinging to it like some pathetic promise.

I tucked the necklace into the last page of the journal, then locked the book in the hidden compartment of my nightstand.

The key? I'd already mailed it to Vivian, my only real friend.

When I was done, I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

My stomach hurt too much to sleep. But I was used to it by now.

When the sun came up, it would all be over.

Ethan, I'll see you in hell. And I'll be waiting when karma comes for you.