Freya's Scheme Ruined My Marriage

The antiseptic smell of the hospital corridor burned my nostrils as I stared at Dr. Harrison Wells, willing his words to change. My father's chart trembled in his hands, the blue folder containing a death sentence unless we found a miracle.

"Terminal kidney disease," he repeated, his voice gentle but firm. "We need to find a donor immediately, Mrs. Montgomery."

I gripped Isaac's hand so tightly my knuckles turned white. My husband—my rock for seven years—squeezed back, his thumb tracing soothing circles against my skin.

"How long does he have?" Isaac asked the question I couldn't bring myself to voice.

"Without a transplant? Three months. Maybe less." Dr. Wells adjusted his glasses, compassion etching lines around his eyes. "We've already begun testing potential donors from your family, Mrs. Montgomery, but so far, we haven't found a match."

My father—the man who'd eventually blessed my marriage despite our families' bitter feud—lay in a hospital bed just rooms away, his once-robust frame withered, skin sallow against stark white sheets. I couldn't lose him. Not like this.

Two weeks of desperate searching followed. Every family member, every distant relative tested. Nothing. The hospital walls began to feel like a prison as hope dwindled with each negative result.

Then came the news that changed everything.

"We found a match," Dr. Wells announced one gray Tuesday morning, but the furrow between his brows didn't match the good news. "A woman named Freya Anderson. She's not related to your family, but her tissue compatibility is remarkably high."

"That's wonderful!" Relief washed through me like a cleansing wave. "When can we schedule the surgery?"

Dr. Wells shifted uncomfortably. "That's the thing, Mrs. Montgomery. Ms. Anderson is requesting to speak with you and your husband personally before she agrees to anything."

Something cold slithered down my spine.

When Freya Anderson walked into the hospital consultation room an hour later, I knew immediately something was wrong. The way her eyes lingered on Isaac, hungry and possessive. The slight curl of satisfaction on her perfectly painted lips.

"Thank you for considering donating," I began, pushing aside my unease. "My father—"

"I'm not here for your father," she interrupted, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. She turned to Isaac, ignoring me completely. "I've admired you for years, Isaac. Watched you. Waited."

Isaac stiffened beside me. "I don't understand what this has to do with the donation."

Freya smiled, slow and deliberate. "It's simple. I'll donate my kidney to save your father-in-law—" her eyes flicked dismissively to me "—but only if you agree to spend three months living with me, Isaac."

The room tilted. "Absolutely not," I said, finding my voice through the shock. "That's—that's insane."

"Then your father dies," Freya shrugged, examining her manicured nails. "Your choice."

Isaac's face had gone pale. "There must be another way. Money—"

"I don't want your money." Freya leaned forward, her perfume cloying in the small space. "I want you, Isaac. Three months. That's my price."

"This is blackmail," I whispered, nausea rising in my throat.

"No, Catalina. This is negotiation." Her use of my name felt like a violation. "And I'm the only one with what you need."

"We refuse," I said firmly, though inside I was crumbling. My father's life or my marriage—what kind of choice was this?

Isaac's hand found mine under the table, but instead of the reassurance I expected, his touch felt uncertain. "We need to think about this," he said slowly.

I turned to him in disbelief. "There's nothing to think about."

"Your father is dying, Cat," he whispered, using the nickname only he called me. "I can handle three months. I'll keep my distance from her. Set boundaries. It's just living arrangements."

Freya watched our exchange with the satisfied smile of a predator who knew her prey was cornered.

"I promise you," Isaac continued, his gray eyes intense on mine, "nothing will happen. I love you. This is just to save your father."

But as Isaac moved his things into Freya's luxury apartment the following week, something in me knew our marriage would never be the same. The woman who held my father's life in her hands had been watching my husband for years, plotting, waiting for this moment of vulnerability.

That night, alone in our bed, I clutched Isaac's pillow to my chest and wept, unaware that across town, Freya was already beginning her seduction, serving my husband his favorite meal—right down to the specific spices I used—information no stranger should have known.