My Last Breath, His Eternal Regret

The night I begged my mafia husband to save me, my body was failing—and his arms were around another woman. Henry Colombo, heir to New York’s most feared mafia dynasty, was the man I had loved all my life. He found me a donor—but at a cruel price. Susan, the woman who had always lingered between us, promised her kidney only if Henry belonged to her. And Henry, blinded by guilt and promises, chose her over me again and again. The night my heart finally gave out on the operating table, he was across the city feeding grapes to another woman. By the time he learned the truth—that every promise, every delay was her trap—it was too late. I was already gone. The ruthless mafia heir who once had everything lost the only woman who ever truly loved him. He went mad with regret. He turned mafia blood money into salvation, building a foundation in my name. “Every life I save,” he told the press, “is because my wife deserved saving.” But no matter how much he begged, I never opened my eyes again. And when death finally came for him, the most feared mafia heir chose to be buried at my side. Chapter 1 The antiseptic burned my nose when I woke for the third time. Cold. Sterile. Empty. Dr. Brown stood at the foot of my bed, face set in stone. “Miss Smith, the dialysis is failing. Without a transplant, you don’t have much time.” “How much?” My voice cracked. He hesitated, the kind of silence that tastes like metal. “Three weeks. Maybe twenty-one days if we manage the symptoms. That’s all.” Twenty-one days. Not a month, not a season. Just twenty-one sunsets. Every tick of the clock was a nail in my coffin. I imagined the seconds dripping like blood from an open wound. I wanted to scream. To beg. To fight. But the truth was crueler: part of me longed for it to end, for the countdown to reach zero so I wouldn’t have to see Henry and Susan’s names flashing on my phone ever again. And yet… another part of me clung like a child, whispering: What if tomorrow there’s hope? What if I survive? The contradiction was unbearable. Hope and despair wrestled in my chest, until even breathing felt like betrayal. I nodded, numb, and reached for my phone. I called Henry Colombo once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. A notification lit my screen. Instagram. Susan’s story blinked up at me: two hands intertwined, her glossy nails resting on the watch I’d given Henry for his birthday. The caption read: After years of waiting, my dream finally came true. Even if it’s a dream, let it last forever. My chest twisted. My thumb slipped. I double-tapped. Liked. Almost instantly, my phone buzzed. “Olivia—listen,” Henry’s voice was raw. “It’s not what you think. She said if I stay with her for a month, she’ll donate. I’m doing this to save you. Just… hold on.” For me? Or for the way she makes you feel alive while I’m fading? Everyone knew our story. Henry Colombo—the heir to one of the city’s most feared Mafia syndicates, a man who ruled with blood and iron—had once been gentle only with me. He remembered the smallest cravings, drove across states for my favorite sweets, knelt beneath fireworks on my twentieth birthday and whispered, “After you graduate, you’ll be my wife.” They all said Henry adored me beyond reason. Until my kidneys failed. He tore through favors and money like he was burning a city to the ground. He leaned on hospital directors, bribed coordinators, even tapped the kind of brokers you only call at midnight. When he finally found a match—Susan Miller—he wired half a million up front. She smiled and said yes. Then came the delays. First, a convenient fainting spell—low blood sugar. He sat by her bed for three days while I lay under fluorescent lights, a needle in my arm. Then pre-op nightmares. He booked a therapist and held her hand until morning. Then a sudden fever. He left me mid-dialysis to cool her forehead with towels. When he pressed for a surgery date, she added stipulations: a private suite, a celebrity surgeon, no press, a diamond pendant “for luck.” She took the pendant. She canceled again. In the end, she named her last price: “Be my boyfriend for a month—publicly. After that, I’ll donate.” She posted our “trial love” to Instagram before the ink on their agreement was even dry. It wasn’t charity. It was conquest. I wasn’t a patient to be saved. I was the audience to her victory. I closed my eyes. For days, I stared at the hospital ceiling, imagining my future shrinking into a row of numbers: 21, 20, 19… Every sunrise wasn’t life—it was subtraction. And in each subtraction, I lost not only time, but the memory of who Henry used to be. “Cancel any pre-op on my side,” I said. “I won’t beg again.” Her goal was never to save me. It was to see me break. And I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. Not anymore. If this was the end, then I would face it with my eyes open. From this moment, my countdown wasn’t just to death—it was to freedom. At sunset, I returned to the penthouse and found the truth waiting in plain sight. Susan was curled against him on the leather sofa, feeding him fruit like she’d always lived there. “Olivia!” Henry shot to his feet, desperation flashing through the guilt. “This is for you—everything I’m doing is for you.” He pressed a velvet box into my hands. “Take it. Accept it. Then let me keep going. Just for a while.” I didn’t open it. “No need. I’ve already agreed.” His breath caught. “You… have?” Susan rose, looping her arm through mine with sugar-sweet intimacy. “Then let’s enjoy this month, the three of us. If you see me close to Henry, don’t be jealous. It means nothing.” “I won’t be jealous.” My voice didn’t waver. Earlier that week, he’d already mixed up the simplest details. He bought the wrong brand of tea—Susan’s favorite, not mine. When I mentioned my lactose intolerance, he blinked in confusion, swearing I’d always loved milk. The man who once knew me to the bone now recalled her cravings, not mine. Relief flickered across his face. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming bowl. “I made this myself. It’ll help you regain your strength.” The scent was warm, familiar. I took one sip—and fire clawed down my throat. I coughed, clutching my neck. “Cashews? You used cashews? I’m allergic—you forgot?” His face drained. “I thought it was hazelnuts—” “Henry,” Susan murmured, soft and claiming, “I’m the one allergic to hazelnuts.” The world tilted. The pain wasn’t the allergy; it was the realization. The man who once memorized every detail of me now remembered only her. Darkness swallowed the room. When I woke again, he was at my bedside, eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse. “Olivia, I’m sorry. I’ll cancel everything. I’ll take care of you. Please—just forgive me.” I turned my face away. My whisper cut cleaner than any blade. “Don’t bother. You’re Susan’s boyfriend now. Remember her preferences, not mine.” And then I ended it. “From this moment on, Henry Colombo… my life has nothing to do with you.” Chapter 2 “Olivia, you’re being irrational.” Henry’s brows knit together, his voice low but firm. “Susan and I are only pretending for a month. That’s all. You know I love you.” He reached out to touch my face. I turned my head away, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “I need to rest.” His hand hovered in the air, then dropped. A sigh. The door closed behind him. I opened my eyes. Silent tears streamed down my face. Dragging a dust-covered box from the back of the closet, I sat on the floor all night sorting through what remained of us— Movie tickets from our first date. The trinkets he had given me. Photographs from our travels. By dawn, I lit a brazier in the courtyard. The fire crackled like a clock counting down, each spark another second of my twenty days left. “What are you doing?!” Susan appeared suddenly, eyes wide as she spotted the flames. She shoved me hard. The brazier tipped, burning coals scattering across the ground. One landed on my arm with a searing hiss. “Ah!” I gasped, clutching the red welt blistering on my skin. “Those are my things, aren’t they?!” she accused, her voice shrill with triumph. “You don’t want me here, just say it! Why burn my things?” “What’s happening?” Henry’s voice thundered down the hall. He rushed in—only to shield Susan behind him first. “Are you hurt?” “Henry,” Susan whimpered, eyes glistening, “Olivia resents me for moving in. She tried to burn my things.” He turned to me at last, his gaze sharp with disappointment. “Olivia, we already owe Susan so much. She’s the one willing to donate for you—how could you treat her like this?” It felt like invisible hands crushing my chest, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. Shaking, I knelt to the ashes, pulling out a half-burned photograph. I held it up. “Look. Clearly. These are our memories. Not hers.” The photo was from last winter—his scarf wrapped around my neck, his nose red from the cold, his eyes warm with laughter. His face froze. “Why burn them?” “They were molding,” I whispered, tossing the charred corner back into the flames. “You can’t,” he snapped. His voice cracked with panic. “These are ours, Olivia. We promised to look at them when we’re old—” Old. The word was a knife. Old was a luxury I didn’t have. My time wasn’t stretching into years; it was shrinking into days. 20…19…18. I stared at him. At his desperate expression. At the pain in his eyes. How absurd. He was still dreaming of “forever.” But I… I was dying. Susan leaned sweetly against his shoulder, her tone trembling just enough to sound pitiful. “Henry, my hand hurts…” Immediately, his attention shifted. He cradled her hand. “Let’s get you some ointment.” Without another glance at me, he led her away. Once, a paper cut on my finger had sent him into a frenzy, insisting we rush to the infirmary. Now my arm was scorched, and he didn’t even look back. I found the medical kit myself. The alcohol stung when it hit my burn, the pain flashing white behind my eyes. But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. That night, I stared at the countdown app on my phone: 19 days. Not long enough to live, but long enough to say goodbye. Every number felt like a match burning down to ash. The next two days, Susan clung to him shamelessly. In the living room, she demanded he cut her steak into bite-sized pieces. On the sofa, she insisted he feed her chocolate-dipped strawberries. Every time I passed by, she’d smile at me like a cat with cream. “Olivia promised she wouldn’t mind. Right?” “Right,” I said every time, my voice steady, my body failing. But each word tasted like iron on my tongue. Breathing grew heavy. My chest ached. My legs trembled as if my body already knew the grave was calling. So before I lost the chance, I made a quiet decision. I booked a studio for a single portrait. Not for vanity, but for closure. When my body was lowered into the ground, I wanted them to see me as I was in life—eyes open, unflinching. This one picture would be mine alone. Untouched by him. Untouched by her. Chapter 3 The studio smelled faintly of dust and old chemicals. I sat quietly beneath the lens, still and pale—the same calm I’d felt last night when I booked the appointment. This was the portrait I’d chosen to leave behind. Twenty days left. Maybe fewer. I wanted at least one picture that was mine. The photographer smiled awkwardly. “Passport photo? ID?” “Final portrait,” I said evenly. His hand shook. The camera almost slipped. While I waited for the prints, laughter drifted in from the doorway. My stomach clenched. Susan, hand hooked possessively through Henry Colombo’s arm, stepped inside. She froze when she saw me. “What photo are you taking, Olivia?” Her voice was sugar with an edge. “ID,” I said, slipping the photo envelope into my bag. “What about you?” Susan leaned into his shoulder. “Couple portraits, of course. We already did a session, just came to pick them up.” “Just humoring her,” Henry explained, glancing at me. His voice softened. “When you’re better, I’ll take you anywhere you want to shoot.” His tone was gentle but hollow, like a man reading from a script. For a heartbeat I almost believed it. Then I remembered: nineteen days. Staff ushered them to the back. I was about to leave when Susan tugged my arm. “Come help us choose!” Before I could refuse, she pulled me to the monitor. The screen filled with image after image: Henry holding her hand, eyes filled with tenderness. Kissing at sunset, her skirt flying. Wearing matching shirts, his arms locked around her waist. Each frame was another knife in my chest. “Pick your favorite, Olivia,” Susan urged, smiling like she already knew I was breaking. Before I could speak, a thunderous crack split the air— One of the heavy backdrop poles had been left unsecured. It toppled with a shriek of metal. In the split second of impact, Henry lunged—not toward me, but to shield Susan, his body caging hers. The pole slammed into my shoulder. A scream tore from my throat as metal sliced through fabric, hot blood soaking crimson into my clothes. “Henry! It hurts!” Susan whimpered, pointing at a faint scratch on her arm. Henry’s eyes narrowed, face taut with panic. “We’re going to the hospital.” He swept her into his arms. At the doorway, he hesitated—only a moment. His gaze flicked back. I was on my knees, dragging myself free, blood dripping steadily onto the floor. One second. Two. And then he turned away, carrying her out without another word. I stitched myself back together alone. The doctor scowled as he worked. “So badly injured, and no one brought you? Just before you, a girl came in with barely a scratch. Her boyfriend demanded a panel of specialists.” The needle pierced my flesh, hot and cold all at once. I laughed bitterly. “That girl’s boyfriend… is mine.” The doctor’s hands faltered, eyes widening. He said nothing, only sewed faster, more grimly. By the time Henry returned, night had fallen. He opened the door to find me awkwardly changing my own bandages. His pupils shrank at the sight of the raw wound. “How did this happen?” His voice cracked. “The pole fell,” I said flatly. His hand trembled as it hovered near me. “Olivia, it was chaos. She was crying, I panicked—” “You did the right thing,” I cut him off. My voice was quiet, even. “She’s your girlfriend now. Of course you should protect her.” He flinched. “No. I’ve told you—treating her well is just to secure the donation. The only one I love is you.” I lowered my eyes, hiding the storm in them. “I know.” Relief softened his face. He helped me bandage my wound, careful, gentle, almost like before. “Rest. I’ll stay.” For a moment, it almost felt like the past. Until her call came. “Henry…” Susan’s cry spilled through the phone, trembling and needy. “I’m at the clinic. The press is outside. They’re threatening me. I need you.” His expression darkened. “I’ll come.” Guilt flickered across his face as he set down the phone. “She’s alone in the hospital. I can’t leave her.” And then he did. Taking the last shred of warmth with him. Two days passed. He never came back. I took my medicine. Changed my dressings. Sat by the window as if waiting for nothing. My phone rang. Susan’s voice, sweet and taunting, spilled through the speaker. “Olivia, did you know? Henry risked his life for me. He entered that underground boxing match, took every blow to win me a rare necklace. They rushed him into surgery. And even then, he kept calling my name.” I shut my book gently, sunlight burning my eyes. “He needs someone to care for him. Want to visit?” Her sing-song lilt dared me to break. “He was hurt for you,” I said quietly. “You’re his girlfriend. You take care of him.” I ended the call. Outside, the wind rattled through the plane trees. I picked up the phone again, dialing calmly. “Hello, this is Olivia Smith. I need to speak with my lawyer about updating my will. And… I’d like to reserve a plot in Section B, number twelve. My parents are there. When the time comes, I want to be with them.” The words had barely left my lips when the door slammed open. Henry Colombo staggered inside, still in a striped hospital gown, chest swathed in bandages seeping red. His lips were bloodless, but his eyes burned dark as hellfire. “Olivia,” his voice was hoarse, deadly, “why are you talking about a grave?” Chapter 4 Henry’s face was ghost-pale, his chest bandages seeping through when he burst into the room. “Olivia,” his voice was hoarse, deadly, “why are you talking about a grave?” I slipped the envelope into my bag, my tone steady. “I went to the lawyer today. I had my will drafted.” His grip clamped around my hand, desperate, trembling. “Stop it. Don’t talk like that. You’re not dying. As soon as Susan donates, you’ll recover. I’ll marry you. We’ll grow old together. You’ll live a long life—I swear it.” I studied him in silence. Once, those eyes overflowed with devotion. Now they only reflected a desperation I no longer believed in. I lowered my gaze. “How did you get hurt?” He hesitated. “An accident.” “Then why aren’t you resting in the hospital?” “You didn’t answer my messages,” he muttered. “I thought something had happened to you.” “I haven’t been looking at my phone.” My voice was calm, detached. “Your injuries are serious. Go back.” Something flickered in his expression—unease, maybe—but he quickly smothered it. “Fine. I’ll recover fast. I’ll come back soon to stay with you.” I only nodded, watching his figure disappear through the door. That evening, I made a decision. If my days were numbered, I wanted at least one night to live as though I still belonged to the world. The riverside restaurant shimmered with city lights, crystal glasses chiming like fragile hearts. I ordered more than I could ever finish—an indulgence illness had long denied me. But the moment I set down the menu, my breath caught. By the window, Henry sat across from Susan, cutting her steak with careful precision, the kind of tenderness that once belonged only to me. A bitter laugh rose in my throat. So this was the man who had just sworn eternity at my bedside. “Olivia?” Susan spotted me, her eyes lighting up with mock surprise. She waved as if greeting an old friend. “What a coincidence! Come sit with us.” “No need.” My smile was polite, my voice steady. “Enjoy your date.” Henry pushed back his chair instantly, striding toward me. “Don’t misunderstand. This is just part of the agreement. Once we’re done, I’ll take you home.” “Go back,” I replied evenly. “Don’t worry about me.” My meal arrived, untouched. Against my will, my eyes drifted back to them. He slid a velvet box across the table. Susan gasped as she opened it, revealing a diamond necklace that glittered like fire. “Henry! How did you know I wanted this design?” Her voice trembled with joy. “You paused on it in a magazine,” he said softly, fastening it around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, deliberate and intimate. Pain ripped through me. Once, every gift he gave me felt like proof he could read my soul—like an open book, every desire laid bare before I ever spoke it. Now, he read only hers. The restaurant lights dimmed. A three-tiered cake appeared, candles flickering like stars. “Make a wish,” Henry whispered, voice honeyed, dripping with tenderness. Susan clasped her hands, eyes closed, her face glowing in the candlelight. He looked at her as if she were the only light left in the world. I clenched the napkin in my fist, nails biting through the fabric. So it was true. All the devotion I once thought was mine alone… could so easily be given to someone else. Chapter 5 The candle flames from Susan’s birthday cake still burned in my mind when the night sky lit up again. Fireworks burst above the river—too close, too loud, too wild. For a moment they were beautiful. Then sparks rained where they shouldn’t have. Someone had left a crate too near the crowd. The wood caught, the sparks fell. I raised my arm as the blast cracked through the air. Heat seared down my forearm, blistering skin in an instant. Blood welled from a cut where shrapnel grazed me. “Henry! I’m burned!” Susan shrieked, clutching a faint scrape on her palm. He didn’t look at me. He scooped her up, carried her toward the exit, and vanished into the smoke—while I staggered alone, my arm raw with pain. The ER was all white walls and antiseptic sting. The doctor cursed as he stitched and wrapped my burns. I kept my gaze steady, refusing to flinch, even as the pain hollowed me out. The door banged open. Henry stormed in, still bandaged from his own injuries, breath ragged. “Olivia!” His voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside the bed. “I’m sorry. I should have—” “You don’t need to explain,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “I don’t need apologies.” He gripped my hand hard. “She’s my responsibility. I swear, everything I do is to save you.” Save me. Responsibility. Words that once would have been love now tasted like chains. He fussed, piling tonics and medicines on the table, smothering me with the carefulness that once had been affection. I made a small excuse—“I want that cake from the south-side bakery”—and he lit up like a man given absolution, rushing out to fetch it. Relief tasted like freedom. I closed my eyes. When the door opened again, his face was different—harder, shadowed. He thrust his phone toward me. On the screen: Susan’s name. A timestamp. A message that read: Help! Olivia had people take me. She’s forcing me to donate a kidney! Henry, come! I stared. My throat closed. “That’s not true.” “She said you led her away from the fireworks,” Henry said, voice raw. “A witness confirmed. You were the last one with her.” “I didn’t—” The denial cracked. “She staged this. You know she delays, you’ve seen—” But I stopped. Because I knew what he would say: We owe her. His jaw clenched. For a moment the softness died, and the heir of the Colombo syndicate—the man made of iron and ruthlessness—looked back at me. “If you won’t tell me the truth, I’ll find it myself.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t rage. He simply gave the order, cold and quiet: “Restrict her movements. No visitors. Monitor everything.” The nurse faltered. “Mr. Colombo, where—?” “Put her in the isolation ward,” he said. His voice was low, merciless. “Keep the temperature cold. I want her to remember what betrayal feels like.” And just like that, guards stationed themselves at the door. Cameras turned toward my bed. The tea the nurse placed on my table steamed faintly, but the room itself was freezing. I lay on the narrow cot with my bandaged arm, staring at the frost along the window, and thought: I had not been taken. I had been left. On the nightstand, my phone screen glowed faintly. The countdown app pulsed in silence. 16 days. Seventeen sunsets. Seventeen mornings I might or might not wake to. Every number was a heartbeat, and every heartbeat was running out. Chapter 6 The isolation ward was colder than any winter. Frost crawled along the windowpane like veins of ice. My body shook so violently I couldn’t tell where the trembling ended and the grief began. On the nightstand, my phone glowed faintly: 16 days. Sixteen mornings left—if I woke at all. Exhaustion dragged me under, and my last thought was a memory—Henry Colombo as a boy, sunlight in his hair, promising: “Olivia, I’ll always protect you.” When I opened my eyes again, antiseptic stung my nose. My arm ached from the IV, my lips cracked. The door swung open. Henry entered, his arm shielding Susan as though even air might bruise her. “Olivia, look what you’ve done.” His voice was glacial. He pushed up Susan’s sleeve, showing faint bruises. “If I hadn’t gotten there in time, who knows what would’ve happened to her.” My throat burned. “It wasn’t me…” The words rasped like sand. “Apologize,” he ordered. His eyes were cold, unrecognizable. “Now. To her.” Susan lingered behind him, feigning fear, though the corner of her lips curled with triumph. I squeezed my fists, nails biting into skin. How many times had I swallowed humiliation just to keep the peace? But this—this was my mother’s name, my own dignity—if I bent now, what would be left of me? “I didn’t touch her,” I said, each word heavy. “You can investigate. I have nothing to confess.” Henry’s jaw tightened. Doubt flickered—only to die when Susan tugged his sleeve with trembling fingers. “Forget it, Henry. If Olivia won’t apologize, I’ll let it go. Just… there’s one thing.” Her eyes slid to my throat, to the emerald resting there. My mother’s last gift. “I’ve always admired that necklace,” she whispered. “If she gives it to me, I’ll forgive her.” I froze. My hand flew to my neck, clutching the chain until it cut into my palm. This necklace wasn’t just metal. It was my mother’s hand brushing my hair before bed. Her voice telling me I was loved. The last proof that once, I belonged somewhere. “No,” I breathed, my voice breaking. “It’s the only thing I have left of her.” Henry’s eyes hardened. He held out his hand, unyielding. “Give it to her, Olivia. Think of it as compensation.” “Compensation?” My laugh cracked, raw. “You’d make me buy back my innocence with my mother’s memory?” He didn’t flinch. “It’s only an object. Peace matters more.” Tears blurred my sight. I wanted to scream, to throw the chain at his feet, to run. But I was too weak, too cornered, too alone. With trembling fingers, I unclasped the necklace and placed it in his palm. The metal left my skin like a piece of my heart being torn away. He turned and handed it to Susan. She cupped it like a prize, then looked at me, eyes glinting with mock sympathy. “But Olivia… if you apologize now, I’ll give it back.” My chest hollowed. Shame burned hotter than the IV sting. Henry said nothing—only watched, silent, waiting. I thought of my mother. Of the girl I once was, who had believed love could shield her. And then I broke. “I’m sorry.” My voice was a whisper scraped raw. Susan’s smile bloomed like a poisonous flower. She stepped forward, holding the necklace between two fingers. “Good girl. Since you’ve apologized, I’ll return it to you.” She extended her hand—then released it. The emerald slipped through her fingers and struck the tiles. The sound of shattering glass split the silence, sharp and final. I stared at the fragments glittering at my feet, unable to move, unable to breathe. Susan pressed a hand to her lips, feigning dismay. “Oh no… I didn’t mean to. It just slipped.” Behind her, Henry’s silence cut deeper than any blade. At my bedside, the phone lit up again. 15 days. Chapter 7 Shards of the emerald still glittered on the floor where Susan had let it fall, each fragment catching the cold light like broken stars. I knelt, scooping them into my palms. The edges cut deep, red drops smearing over green. This wasn’t just jewelry. It was my mother’s hands smoothing my hair, her voice humming me to sleep, the only proof she had ever loved me. And now it lay shattered, like me. Behind me came a gasp—too practiced, too perfect. Susan stumbled backward and clipped the bedframe. Blood trickled down her forehead in a neat, crimson line. “Olivia!” Henry’s roar shook the walls. He rushed past me, cradling Susan like fragile porcelain, murmuring her name as if she might vanish. Then he turned, his fury aimed at me. “Are you insane? Over a necklace?” My chest seized. I pressed the shards harder until they carved deeper lines in my palms. “Yes. Over this. Because it’s all I have left of my parents.” For a heartbeat, something flickered in his face—hesitation, almost guilt. Then it was gone, replaced by ice. “Objects can be replaced. People can’t. If Susan is hurt—she’s the one willing to save you. She’s the one you owe.” “I don’t want her kidney,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I don’t want anything from her. Get out.” He opened his mouth, but Susan tugged his sleeve, trembling prettily. “Henry, please. Let’s go. She just needs time…” The door closed, leaving me on the floor, sobbing into broken glass until no sound came out at all. The next days dissolved into haze. I slept through whole afternoons, waking to find hours had slipped by. The countdown on my phone pulsed: 3 days… 2 days… Henry tried to smooth things over. He brought master jewelers, laying velvet boxes on my nightstand. “Look, Olivia. It’s been repaired. Perfect, just like before. And these—new designs, all emeralds. Pick whichever you like.” His voice was coaxing, hopeful, almost boyish. “Take them away,” I said, staring at the window, my tone flat as stone. He faltered, but Susan slipped in beside him, her arm twining through his. “Let her be, Henry. Some wounds take time. Besides… our month is almost up. I just want to spend these last days with you.” He glanced at me—hesitant, guilty—but let her lead him out. From then on, they were inseparable. Morning coffees, evening drives, candlelit dinners… while I grew paler, weaker, smaller. They didn’t notice when I fainted in the kitchen and woke on the cold tile, alone. They didn’t notice when every step required bracing against the wall. My body was unraveling thread by thread, and only I knew it. That morning, I forced myself downstairs. My legs shook; my vision swam black at the edges. The countdown read: 1 day. Tomorrow was the scheduled transplant. But I knew Susan would never come. Behind me, her voice rang honey-sweet, pitched just high enough for him to hear. “Henry is taking me to the coast today. Should we invite Olivia?” Mockery wrapped in silk. I gripped the rail tighter, lips too numb to form words. The dizziness surged like a wave. My foot slipped on the last step. My body pitched forward. “Olivia!” Henry’s shout split the air—but his arms went not for me. He caught Susan, pulling her tight against his chest, shielding her as if I were the danger. I crashed against the marble floor. Pain split my skull, warmth spilling hot down my forehead. “What are you doing?!” His voice thundered as he clutched Susan closer. “Why would you push her?” Blood blurred my eyes. I wanted to scream that I hadn’t touched her, that the ground itself had risen to claim me. But the words stayed trapped. Because deep down, I knew the truth pulsing in my veins: He would never believe me. Not until it was too late. At my side, my phone lit up. 1 day. Chapter 8 Blood trickled hot down my temple, staining the marble beneath me. “I didn’t… mean to,” I whispered, vision swimming. “She did it on purpose!” Susan sobbed prettily, clutching her head. “She knew you were taking me out today. She couldn’t stand it!” Henry’s face hardened like stone. He turned toward me—then froze as I doubled over, coughing violently. Scarlet splattered the pristine floor. “Olivia!” He finally noticed, darting forward, but his hands hesitated halfway. I shook my head weakly. “It’s nothing…” His jaw clenched. Relief flickered, then hardened again. “You’re pretending. Tomorrow is the transplant. Stop the tantrums.” He checked his watch, voice calm again. “Today is Susan’s last day as my temporary partner. When it ends, the rest of my life belongs to you.” He guided her out gently, only pausing at the door: “Don’t cause her trouble again.” The next morning, the surgical wing glared with sterile light. Monitors already showed unstable lines across my chest. “Where’s the donor?” the surgeon demanded, checking his watch. “Miss Smith, your condition can’t wait.” My hand shook as I dialed. One last chance. “Olivia?” Henry’s voice came muffled through laughter, background chatter spilling in. “Where is she?” My voice was a thread. “I’m on the table. Waiting.” Susan’s sing-song whine floated through: “Henry… feed me another grape.” My blood went cold. “She’s… anxious,” Henry said finally, his tone vague, guilty. “Her heartbeat spiked, the doctors said it’s too risky. She begged for one more day. You’re strong, Olivia. Hold on just a little longer. Tomorrow, I’ll bring her—I swear.” The monitor shrieked with alarms. Nurses rushed in, panic slicing the sterile air. “Miss Smith, your vitals are collapsing! We must begin immediately!” Tears slid silently down my temples. “Henry… I can’t wait for tomorrow.” “Don’t talk nonsense,” he soothed, gentle and blind. “You’ve always been strong. Sleep. Tomorrow everything will be fine.” The line went dead. The surgical lamp above blurred, blinding white. Memories spilled like a reel of film— Seventeen: collapsing from heat on the track field, Henry running with me on his back, sweat soaking his shirt as he laughed breathlessly: “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” Eighteen: rain hammering down after prom, him stripping off his jacket to hold over my head, his boyish grin flashing: “My Olivia can’t get sick.” Twenty: feverish at 3 a.m., the door bursting open, his eyelashes frosted from the long drive, his voice rough but tender: “Be good, take the medicine.” And then—springtime, in a garden full of blooming tulips, his hand closing around mine, his promise sweet and sure: “When you graduate, we’ll marry.” But that boy was gone. In his place stood a man feeding grapes to another woman, walking further and further away. I smiled through the tears. A smile of surrender. Of release. The monitor flatlined. “Time of death: 13:14, August 13th.” The surgeon’s voice was clinical, detached. Outside, the storm broke. A single shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds, laying itself gently across my still face—like the sky itself was saying goodbye. And across the city, Henry slid another grape between Susan’s lips, utterly unaware that the only woman who had ever truly loved him had just slipped from his world forever.