Signed My Heart Away on Our Anniversary

On my fifth wedding anniversary with Rebecca Leavitt, I sign an organ donation consent form. My entire family opposed my decision. Mom sobs as she slaps herself across the face. "This is all my fault. I'm useless. I couldn't make enough to pay for your heart transplant…" Dad took an overnight train from our hometown. The moment he stepped inside, he knelt down in front of me. "I'll sell my kidney on the black market. Please don't do this!" he pleads. My younger sister, Winona Zander, tore the consent form to pieces, scattering the scraps across my face. "Will, just hold on for another six months. My scholarship will come through soon!" Only Rebecca said nothing. She sits calmly on the couch, painting her nails with the polish she just bought, its crimson shade resembling blood. "Do whatever you want," she said, blowing lightly on her nails. "The doctor said your heart wouldn't last more than three months anyway." Chapter 1 The living room was bathed in cold white light, making Rebecca Leavitt's profile look almost unreal, as delicate and flawless as a marble statue. I sat curled in my wheelchair and watched the woman I'd loved for ten years. I'd been diagnosed with congenital dilated cardiomyopathy five years ago. Since then, my heart had swollen far beyond its normal size, stretched so dangerously that it could fail at any moment. The doctors had given me two choices—get a heart transplant, or wait for the day my heart would inevitably fail. The transplant alone would cost one million dollars, not including the treatment and medication I'd need afterward. Our entire family had pooled everything we had, draining every available bank account, and we'd still managed to come up with only 300,000 dollars. When Rebecca married me, I hadn't gotten sick yet. Back then, I was the youngest lead designer at an architectural firm, while she taught dance at the art college next door. She'd designed her own wedding dress. Whenever she spun around on the dance floor, the skirt opened around her like a white magnolia in bloom. "William," she'd told me, "I want to spend my whole life by your side." Then, I got sick. I couldn't work anymore. I couldn't afford to get too excited or emotional. We couldn't even be intimate anymore. Rebecca quit teaching at the college and opened a dance studio for kids instead. She left home at 7:00 am every day and rarely returned before 10:00 pm, usually carrying the faint smell of sweaty children and cheap stage makeup on her clothes. She stopped wearing dresses, stopped putting on makeup, and eventually stopped talking about dance altogether. For her birthday last year, I saved up and bought her a silk dress. Rebecca took one look at the price tag and returned it on the spot. "3,800 dollars? We could get you half a month's worth of medication with that money." She used the refund to buy me an oxygen concentrator instead. The machine hummed beside our bed every night, and Rebecca told me, "Maybe this will help you sleep better." What she didn't know was that I barely slept at all. Every night, I lay awake listening to her turn over beside me, sigh into the darkness, and sometimes choke back quiet sobs when she thought I was asleep. I knew how tired she was. The dance studio was struggling, and parents often delayed tuition payments. Mom had come from our hometown to help, but she and Rebecca argued over little things almost every day. My sister, Winona Zander, was still in graduate school, so we were helping with her tuition and living expenses. Dad had injured his back after falling at a construction accident, and when his employer disappeared, the medical bills were left for us to pay. Rebecca was carrying the weight of all of it. Last week, she came home with bruises on her arm. When I asked what happened, she brushed it off. "One of the parents got upset and shoved me." Late that night, I heard her speaking quietly into the phone while she was on the balcony. "Mr. Wagner, I'll take the performance. I'll wear whatever you want me to… We can work out the price." After the call ended, Rebecca crouched on the balcony and cried for ten minutes. She didn't make a sound. Her shoulders simply shook. I lay in the bedroom with one hand pressed to my chest, feeling my damaged heart beat beneath my palm. Each beat felt like another second ticking off a clock. Chapter 2 Three days after I signed the organ donation agreement, Rebecca landed a major job. A new shopping mall in the city was holding its grand opening and needed dancers for the event. The performance paid 5,000 dollars, which was about half a month's income from her studio. "What are you wearing?" I asked. Rebecca was doing her makeup in front of the mirror, and her hand paused. "Just a regular dance costume." "How regular?" "It just… shows a little midriff." She applied a bright red lipstick that looked almost jarring on her. "That's what's popular right now." My heart clenched painfully, but it wasn't a result of my heart condition this time. "Don't go," I said. "I can apply for medical assistance—" "And how many months of medication do you think that would cover?" she cut in as she zipped up the costume. I'd seen it before. The entire back was bare except for a few thin straps. Rebecca used to hate outfits like these and refused to wear them herself. Before leaving, she crouched in front of my wheelchair and held my face between her hands. "William." Her eyes were bright, and something about them made me uneasy. "I'll bring you a cake from that bakery on the west side of town when I come home. You love their cake, don't you?" I parted my lips. I wanted to tell her not to go. I wanted to tell her I didn't even like cake that much anymore. Before I could, her phone rang. The event staff was calling to tell her to hurry. Rebecca kissed my forehead, grabbed her bag, and ran out the door. The click of her heels faded down the hallway, each step seeming to hammer my chest. She didn't come home that night, and her phone was turned off. Later, someone posted in the dance studio's group chat that the performance had been a huge success. The investors were so pleased that they'd taken all the dancers out to dinner afterward. There was a photo attached. Rebecca was sitting near the head of the table with a sweet smile on her face. Beside her was a balding man, who had one arm draped across the back of her chair. I stared at the picture until my phone screen dimmed. She finally came home at 3:00 am. She reeked of alcohol, her makeup was smeared, and her hair was a mess. I wheeled myself toward her. "What happened?" "Nothing." She pushed past me and rushed into the bathroom to puke. I remained outside in my wheelchair, listening to the violent retching on the other side of the door while my fingers dug into the armrests. Splinters from the worn wood pierced my palms, but I barely noticed the pain. When Rebecca finally came out, her eyes were swollen and red, and there were red marks along her neck. "Let's just sleep," she said. Then, she collapsed onto the couch without even changing her clothes. I went into the bedroom, brought back a blanket, and draped it over her, only for Rebecca to seize my hand with startling strength. "William." Her voice came out hoarse. "I wish we had money. One million dollars… That would be enough to buy your life back.." My body stiffened. Moonlight filtered through the window and fell across her face. Her eyes remained closed, but tears slipped from the corners and disappeared into her hair. At that moment, I knew something between us had broken. Chapter 3 The following day, an unexpected visitor showed up at the dance studio. He was a man in his 40s, dressed in a suit and carrying a fruit basket. "I'm Ethan Carter. I was one of the sponsors behind the mall opening yesterday." He handed Rebecca a business card. "Ms. Leavitt, you were very impressive yesterday. I wanted to talk to you about a long-term opportunity." Rebecca was helping me take my medication. Her hand jerked, spilling water all over my clothes. "Mr. Carter, how did you find me here?" she asked. "I asked one of your coworkers." Ethan smiled as his gaze swept over the worn-down studio, moved to my wheelchair, and finally settled on Rebecca. "This place has seen better days, but someone with your talent shouldn't be stuck somewhere like this." He told us he owned three performing arts schools in the area and was looking for a principal instructor. "The base salary is 20,000 dollars a month. Commission would be on top of that." The pill bottle slipped from Rebecca's hand as pills scattered across the floor. When I bent down to pick it up, I slipped from my wheelchair and fell to the floor with a loud thud. Rebecca rushed to steady me, and Ethan came over to help as well. "And who's this?" he asked. "He's my husband," Rebecca replied quietly. Ethan paused before his smile quickly returned, even warmer than before. "Mr. Zander, right? It's nice to finally meet you." He crouched to help collect the pills, moving as casually as though nothing were unusual. Then, his shoe came down on two of them. He crushed them beneath his sole and ground them into the floor. Rebecca saw it, and so did I. For several seconds, the room went completely still. "Sorry about that," Ethan said as he reached for his wallet. "Let me pay for—" "Don't worry about it," Rebecca interrupted as she helped me back into my wheelchair. "Mr. Carter, I'll think about the offer." "Of course." Ethan stood and smoothed his suit. "Just don't take too long, Ms. Leavitt. Opportunities like this don't stay open forever. I have plenty of people interested in the job." Then, he left. A moment later, the sound of him humming an old love song drifted through the hallway. Rebecca closed the door, leaned against it, and slowly slid to the floor. "20,000 dollars…" she murmured. "That's 240,000 dollars a year. Four years, and we'd have the million…" I wheeled myself closer and reached for her shoulder. All of a sudden, Rebecca looked up, her eyes bloodshot. "William, do you hate me?" I froze. "Last night…" She buried her face in her hands. "Mr. Carter put his hand on my waist, and I didn't move away. At dinner, he kept pushing drinks on me, and I drank them. He offered to drive me home, and when his hand moved to my thigh, I didn't stop him." Her shoulders trembled, and her voice came muffled through her fingers. "Because while we were in the car, he told me he knows a couple of cardiac specialists abroad. He said if money can solve a problem, then it isn't really a problem." My heart clenched, and the familiar crushing pain tore through my chest. I gasped for air as my shaking hand reached for my medication. Rebecca rushed over immediately. With practiced ease, she gave me the medicine, rubbed my back, and adjusted the oxygen concentrator. By the time the pain finally subsided, cold sweat had soaked through my clothes. She sank to her knees in front of me and rested her face against my lap. "I'm sorry…" Rebecca sobbed like a child. "William, I'm so sorry. I just want you to stay alive…" I stroked her hair and tried to answer, but my throat tightened until I couldn't speak. … That night, Ethan called again. Rebecca took the call on the balcony and stayed out there for a long time. When she came back inside, her eyes were bright with hope. "Mr. Carter said he has a friend who's a renowned cardiac surgeon overseas. He's coming to Corvia next month for a medical conference. He can arrange a consultation for us, and he'll pay for it." I looked at the light in Rebecca's eyes and felt a chill run down my spine. "What's the catch?" I asked. Her smile faltered. "Just… going with him to a few business dinners now and then. He does a lot of entertaining for work, and sometimes he needs a woman there with him for appearances." "Is that all?" "That's all," she repeated, as though she were trying to convince herself.