After My Miscarriage, He Harvested My Womb for His Mistress

I had just come out of surgery—the abortion—and was still half-conscious from the anesthesia.

My lower abdomen felt like it had been run over by a truck.

Derek Gilbert walked in wearing his white coat. As he peeled off his gloves, he said coolly, "Good thing the baby's gone. Perfect timing to remove part of your uterus and transplant it to Serena."

I thought I'd misheard. "What? Who's Serena?"

His eyes held no warmth—he looked at me the way you'd look at a cooler full of organs. "My first love. She was born with an underdeveloped uterus. She can't have children."

"Your body's in good shape. We're not having kids anyway, so you might as well help her out."

I struggled to sit up, staring at him in disbelief. "Derek, I'm your wife! You want me to give my organ to your ex?"

He pushed my shoulder back down, his tone brooking no argument. "It's the optimal medical solution. And your chance to atone."

"Atone? What the hell did I do?"

He looked down at me and adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. "You took the position that should've been hers. For five years."

"I already signed the consent form for you. Refuse to cooperate, and your father's medication stops tomorrow."

I lay on the freezing table, staring up at the blinding surgical light.

So that's what I was to him. Not a person. A spare parts warehouse.

1.

Derek slapped the consent form onto my face. The paper's edge sliced my cheek. The pen nearly stabbed my eye.

I ignored the sting and grabbed the hem of his coat. "Have you lost your mind? I just miscarried! That was our baby!"

"A transplant now—you want me to die on the table?"

He shook off my hand like I was something dirty. "You won't die. I'm the lead surgeon. I know what I'm doing."

"Besides, the embryo was low quality anyway. Miscarriage was inevitable."

"Serena can't wait. Her birthday's next month. This is my gift to her."

A gift. My organ. For the one who got away.

I was shaking—from rage or cold, I couldn't tell. "I won't sign. I'm calling the police. This is assault!"

Derek laughed, cold and superior—a god looking down at an insect. "Call them. I'm your legal husband and your attending physician. I have every right to decide your treatment."

"And have you forgotten your father's still in the ICU?"

At the mention of my father, my voice died in my throat.

Derek smiled, satisfied, and pulled out his phone. "Harold Fox's care costs twelve thousand a day. My connections got him into that ward."

"One call, and he's in the hallway tonight."

"Want to test me?"

I bit through my lip. Blood pooled in my mouth.

Five years ago, I was a prodigy in med school. He was the scholarship kid with nothing. To put him through his PhD, I gave up my graduate spot. Sold insurance. Waited tables. Worked three jobs while my hands cracked raw from dish soap.

Back then, he carried me through the snow when I had a fever, swearing he'd protect me forever.

Now he stood in the tailored shirt I'd bought him, ready to carve me up and hand me over.

"Derek Gilbert, did a dog eat your conscience?"