My fingertips slipped from the edge of the heavy paper.

Edwin snatched the organ donation agreement before it could flutter to the glass table. His dark eyes darted across the ink. He rubbed his thumb over my signature, checking if it would smear. He searched for a forgery, a mistake, a trick.

He found nothing.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked up, his brow pulling together in a sharp knot of annoyance.

"That is it?" he demanded.

"I signed it," I said, folding my arms across my chest.

"No tears? No screaming?" He took a step toward me, crushing a piece of the broken picture frame beneath his boot. "You usually throw a glass. You usually tell me how much you sacrificed."

"You have the paper, Edwin."

"You are not even going to bring up the kidnapping," he pressed, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Come on, Victoria. This is your favorite part. Tell me how you took a knife for me two years ago. Remind me about that five-inch scar on your ribs. Tell me how much you bled for me in that warehouse so I feel terrible about asking for your heart."

I stayed completely silent.

He waited. The quiet stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

"Nothing?" he snapped.

"I signed where you told me to sign," I replied, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a fight.

He stared at me, genuinely thrown. He wanted the hysterical woman who begged for scraps of his affection. He wanted the guilt trip so he could justify his cruelty. I gave him nothing.

The front door opened again. Three assistants hurried into the living room, their soft-soled shoes padding lightly against the hardwood. The lead assistant, a pale woman clutching a massive garment bag, nervously reached out.

Edwin shoved the signed agreement into her hands. "Get this to the surgical team immediately. Tell them we have a donor."

"Yes, Mr. Mercer," she squeaked, grabbing the papers and rushing back out to the corridor.

The other two assistants stepped forward, unzipping the garment bag they carried. Yards of white silk and heavy pearl embroidery spilled out, catching the harsh light of the chandelier.

It was a wedding dress.

Edwin turned back to me. He reached out, his fingers clamping hard around my chin. He tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his cold gaze.

"This is your reward," he sneered, his thumb pressing violently into my jawbone. "You begged to be my wife. Now you get to play the part."

He grabbed the gown from the assistant and shoved it hard against my chest. I stumbled back, catching the massive weight of the fabric before it hit the floor.

"Wear it to the hospital tomorrow," Edwin ordered, releasing my chin. "I arranged for the press to be at the entrance. I will make sure the media captures exactly how 'willing' you are to save Rose."

"A wedding dress for an organ donation," I said, my tone flat.

"It tells a story," he replied, pacing away from me. "I want the headlines to say you gave your life for our love. It makes for perfect PR. The board will stop questioning my leadership if they see us united in a tragic romance."

"You are turning my death into a press release."

"I am giving you what you wanted," he shot back. "You get to die as Mrs. Mercer. Put it on. Let me see if it fits."

I looked at the heavy white fabric in my hands.

"Now, Victoria," he snapped.

I did not throw the dress at his head. I did not scream.

I carried the massive, suffocating weight of the gown to the center of the room. I let my sweater drop to the floor. The assistants watched in stunned silence as I stepped into the silk alone.

I pulled the heavy fabric up my legs and over my hips. Reaching behind my back, I grabbed the metal tab and pulled the zipper up my spine.

The rough, stiff edge of the pearl embroidery bit directly into my skin. It scraped hard against the raised, five-inch scar on my left ribcage—the exact spot where a kidnapper's blade had nearly ended my life two years ago. I had thrown myself in front of Edwin that night.

Now, the friction of the pearls burned against the old wound.

"It fits," I said, my voice empty.

Edwin glanced over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping over the white silk. He did not smile. "Good. Do not take it off."

Fourteen hours later, the glaring fluorescent lights of Memorial Hospital’s VIP suite buzzed above my head.

The heavy silk weighed me down like lead. The pearls dug relentlessly into my scar with every breath I took, a constant, abrasive reminder of my past foolishness.

Edwin sat on the leather sofa near the door. He scrolled through his tablet, ignoring the reporters he had paraded me past in the lobby just an hour ago.

"The surgical prep starts in twenty minutes," Edwin announced, finally breaking the silence. "The cameras got enough footage outside. You look like a saint."

"Did they get a good angle of the ring?" I asked, glancing at the massive diamond he had forced onto my finger in the limousine.

"They got everything," he replied, his tone entirely businesslike. "The stock prices are already stabilizing. People love a sacrifice."

"Are you going to hold my hand while they put me under?"

He scoffed, tossing the tablet onto the cushion next to him. "I need to be with Rose. She is terrified."

"Terrified of getting a healthy heart."

"Terrified of the surgery, Victoria. Have some sympathy. She did not ask for her body to fail."

"And I did not ask to be butchered."

"We made a deal," he warned, his voice hardening. "Do not start acting like a victim now. You signed the paper. You put on the dress."

"I am merely stating a fact."

Footsteps approached the suite from the hallway.

"Edwin?" a weak, high-pitched voice called out.

Edwin’s head snapped up. He shot to his feet, smoothing the front of his jacket.

Before he could reach the handle, the heavy door swung open.

Rose stepped into the room. She wore a pale blue hospital gown, her dark hair framing her pale face. Despite her supposed failing heart, her cheeks held a faint flush of color, and her posture was remarkably steady.

In her right hand, she gripped a large, steaming paper cup of coffee.

She did not look at Edwin. Her eyes locked directly onto me, narrowing at the sight of the elaborate white wedding dress.

"Rose, what are you doing out of bed?" Edwin asked, rushing toward her. "You need to rest before the transplant."

"I just wanted to see her," Rose murmured, her voice trembling perfectly. "I wanted to thank my savior."

She bypassed Edwin entirely, stepping deeper into the suite.

"You do not need to thank me," I said, keeping my distance.

"But I do." Rose walked faster, her grip tightening on the coffee cup. "You are giving up so much for me."

She did not stop walking. She closed the distance between us in three rapid strides, her eyes flashing with a sharp, calculated malice that completely contradicted her fragile tone.

"Rose, wait," Edwin warned, stepping behind her.

She lunged forward.

The plastic lid popped off the cup as Rose slammed her body directly into mine, hurling the scalding black coffee straight at my chest.

The dark liquid flew straight toward my face.

I did not freeze. I pivoted hard to the right, letting my momentum carry me completely out of the splash zone.

The scalding coffee missed my skin entirely. Instead, it splashed heavily across the heavy silk skirt of the wedding gown. Dark brown stains bloomed instantly over the pristine white fabric, soaking into the intricate pearl embroidery.

"Ah!" Rose shrieked.

She stumbled forward, thrown off balance by her own missed target, and grabbed her chest. Her knees buckled beneath her. "Edwin!"

He caught her right before she hit the floor. "Rose!"

"My chest," she gasped, her fingers digging frantically into the lapels of his jacket. "It hurts. She tried to hurt me."

Edwin’s head snapped up. His dark eyes locked onto me, blazing with fury. He gently lowered Rose to the leather sofa, then marched directly across the room.

He shoved my shoulder hard. I stumbled backward, my heels catching on the heavy, ruined skirt.

Before I could regain my balance, his hand swung through the air.

A sharp crack echoed in the suite.

The sting radiated across my left cheek. My head snapped to the side from the sheer force of the impact. A metallic taste flooded my mouth.

"You vicious bitch," Edwin snarled, standing over me. "She is dying, and you try to scald her?"

I turned my head back slowly. I lifted my hand, pressing my thumb to the corner of my mouth. A bright streak of red stained my skin.

"She threw the cup, Edwin," I said, my voice completely flat.

"Don't lie to me!" he yelled, pointing a finger directly at my face. "I saw you step out of the way on purpose so she would fall. You just could not stand seeing her in this room, could you? You had to ruin it."

I stared at his flushed, angry face. I looked at the hand that had just struck me.

A year ago, a blizzard buried the city. The temperature dropped to ten degrees below zero. Edwin’s mother lay in a hospital bed, needing a specialist who refused to take new patients. I knelt on the frozen concrete outside that clinic for ten hours until he finally agreed to operate. My knees suffered permanent nerve damage. I could not walk without severe pain for months.

I destroyed my joints to save his family. He slapped my face because his mistress dropped her own coffee.

"Are you even listening to me?" Edwin demanded, stepping closer. "Apologize to her. Right now."

"No."

Edwin stopped. "What did you say?"

"I said no." I wiped the rest of the blood from my lip onto the back of my hand. "I am giving her my heart in less than twelve hours. I am not giving her an apology for a mess she made herself."

"You provoked her!"

"I stood still," I corrected him. "She aimed for my face. I moved."

"She is sick!" Edwin roared, his fists clenching tight at his sides. "Her heart is failing. She is fragile!"

"Then she should stay in bed instead of playing games," I replied.

I did not raise my voice. I did not cry. The sheer emptiness in my chest felt better than any rage.

Edwin stared at me, visibly unsettled. He searched my eyes for the tears that usually followed his anger. He waited for my voice to shake. He waited for me to beg for his understanding.

I offered him absolutely nothing.

Rose whimpered from the sofa, breaking the silence. "Edwin, please. Do not fight with her. I just wanted to thank her. It was an accident. My hand slipped."

"You hear that?" Edwin snapped, turning his attention back to me. "She is defending you. Even after what you did, she is trying to keep the peace. You have zero class, Victoria."

I looked down at the ruined silk pooling around my feet. The brown stain smelled intensely of burnt roast. The pearls were sticky and ruined.

"The press will not like this dress anymore," I pointed out. "It does not look very saintly."

Edwin’s jaw tightened. He realized I was right. The pristine PR image he wanted to parade in front of the cameras was covered in coffee.

"Take it off," he ordered, his voice turning cold and businesslike again. "I will have my assistant bring a replacement."

"Fine."

I turned my back on him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the bathroom," I said, not stopping my stride. "Unless you want me to strip in front of you and your fragile true love."

I did not wait for his answer. I grabbed the heavy, stained fabric of the skirt and hauled it up, marching toward the en-suite bathroom.

"You are acting insane," Edwin called after me. "You think this cold act makes you look strong? It just proves how heartless you really are."

"Good thing you are taking my heart, then," I threw over my shoulder.

I stepped into the bathroom and kicked the heavy wooden door shut. The lock clicked into place, instantly cutting off the sound of Rose’s theatrical gasps and Edwin’s soothing murmurs.

Silence greeted me. The bright vanity lights illuminated the stark white tiles and the massive mirror above the sink.

I dropped the heavy skirt. The wet fabric slapped against the marble floor.

Reaching behind my neck, I gripped the metal zipper tab. I yanked it down. The stiff pearls scraped violently against the scar on my ribs again, but I ignored the sting. I let the gown fall from my shoulders. It pooled around my ankles in a ruined, expensive heap.

I stepped out of the silk and kicked it into the far corner of the room.

Wearing only my underwear, I walked up to the sink. I leaned over the cold marble counter and stared at my reflection.

My left cheek bore a bright red handprint. My lip was slightly swollen where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth.

I turned the faucet on. Cold water rushed from the tap. I cupped my hands, brought the water to my face, and rinsed away the remaining traces of blood.

I grabbed a white towel from the rack and patted my skin dry.

As I lowered the towel, my eyes caught a flash of silver in the mirror.

I looked up. On my pale neck, the silver necklace I always wore—the anchor to the system—suddenly cracked with a shocking black fissure.