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?"

"I paid for your schooling, supported your whole family, and this is how you repay me?"

Derek's face darkened, like I'd hit a nerve.

"Shut up! That was all your one-sided delusion—you patting yourself on the back!"

"If you hadn't clung to me like a leech, Serena and I would've been married years ago!"

"You're dead weight. Other than cooking and laundry, what can you even do?"

"Serena's different. She's a Pruitt—she can actually advance my career."

"Giving her your uterus is the most useful thing you'll ever do."

The door swung open.

A nurse wheeled in a medication cart. One look at the tension in the room and she froze, too scared to speak.

Derek's expression smoothed into that polished, professional mask.

"Change the dressing for Bed 3 and prep the skin. First surgery tomorrow morning."

The nurse hesitated. "Dr. Gilbert, Bed 3 just had a uterine evacuation. Her vitals—"

"Do what I said." His voice cracked like a whip.

She flinched and nodded quickly.

Right there, with her watching, Derek flipped my blanket open.

No warning. No respect. Like he was inspecting a slab of meat.

"Recovery looks fine. Won't affect the retrieval."

Retrieval.

Like I was a package.

The humiliation hit so hard I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

Because I'd spotted the wheelchair parked in the doorway.

A woman sat in it, smiling right at me.

Serena Pruitt.

I'd only ever seen her photo—tucked in the hidden fold of Derek's wallet. An old picture from years ago. The girl in it looked so innocent, like a delicate white flower.

The Serena in front of me wore a hospital gown. Even sitting in a wheelchair, her complexion was rosy.

She looked healthier than me—the one who'd just miscarried.

The second Derek saw her, his whole demeanor melted into something sickeningly tender.

"Serena, why are you here? There are germs everywhere—you might get infected."

She extended her hand delicately, letting him support her.

"Derek, I'm worried about my sister."

"She just lost her baby. She must be devastated. I had to see her."

He wheeled her to my bedside.

The scent hit me first—expensive perfume. The same one Derek bought last week. With my card.

Serena took my hand, and the tears came on cue.

"Sister, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. My body just isn't strong enough."

"I want so badly to have Derek's baby."

"Since you can't carry one anymore… lend me your womb. You won't be using it anyway."

Lend?

You can lend something like that?

I stared at her fake, pitiful face, and my stomach turned.

"Get out. Don't touch me."

I wrenched my hand free with everything I had.

Serena went with it—Loss of balance, dramatic stumble, whole body crashing to the floor.

"Ow! It hurts!"

"Serena!"

Derek lunged for her, scooped her up, then spun around and backhanded me across the face.

Crack.

The slap was vicious.

My freshly sutured abdomen seized. My vision went black.

"Alex! You vicious bitch! Serena came to see you out of kindness, and you shoved her?"

I cupped my cheek, ears ringing.

"She's faking it… Derek, are you blind? She's not sick at all!"

When I pulled away, I barely used any force.

And her pulse had been strong. Her palm warm. Nothing about her screamed "congenital illness."

I studied medicine. I know what sick looks like.

Derek didn't hear a word. He was too busy settling Serena gently back into the wheelchair.

"If anything happens to her—I'll make you pay with your life."

Serena curled into Derek's arms, tears streaming. "Derek, don't blame her. She's probably just jealous."

A delicate pause. "After all, I'm the one you're marrying. She was always just... temporary."

Derek wiped her cheeks, his voice dripping with tenderness. "Temporary? She's the help."

Then he pulled out his phone. Right in front of me. Dialed my father's attending physician.

Speakerphone on.

"This is Dr. Gilbert. Cut Old Mr. Fox's ventilator for thirty minutes."

Silence. Then the doctor's voice, strained: "Dr. Gilbert, that's... he can't survive without it. Thirty minutes will kill him."

Derek's eyes locked onto mine. His lips curled.

"Do it. If anything happens, I'll take responsibility." A beat. "Or just say the family requested it."

He hung up.

Less than a minute later, the ICU monitors screamed down the hallway.

The sound of death counting down.

"No! You monster!"

I collapsed. The pain in my abdomen meant nothing. I knelt on the bed, forehead hitting the mattress, again and again.

"Please—don't touch my dad. I'll sign. I'll sign anything."

"Whatever you want. Just don't stop his oxygen."

Dignity?

When your father's life hangs by a thread, dignity is worthless.

Derek smiled, satisfied. He made another call. Oxygen restored.

Then he leaned down and patted my face. Like praising an obedient dog.

"See? If you'd cooperated earlier, we could've skipped all this."

"Tomorrow. Eight a.m. Operating room." His voice dropped. "Clean yourself up. I don't like dirty things."

Serena giggled behind her hand. "How sensible of you, sister. Thank you for being so generous."

They left.

I stayed in the darkness, alone, listening to my father's faint heartbeat echoing from down the hall.

Something inside me died that night.

I lay awake until dawn, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Five years rewound like a film reel.

Buying the cheapest pads so I could afford his textbooks.

Treating his entire lab to dinner when he published his first paper—more excited than he was.

His promise: "Alex, when I'm a famous doctor, the first thing I'll do is cure Dad."

All of it. A lie.

From the very beginning, I was just a cost he'd calculated and accepted.

Six a.m. Morning rounds.

Derek swept in with a flock of interns. Crisp white coat, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light. No trace of last night's cruelty.

"Alright, everyone. Today we discuss a special case."

He gestured toward me. Like pointing at an object.

"Patient Fox. Uterine malformation causing recurrent miscarriages. She has expressed a strong desire to donate."

"We'll perform a high-difficulty partial uterine transplant. The recipient is a young woman with congenital uterine underdevelopment."

Pens flew across notebooks.

Someone murmured, "A living donor transplant? Has this cleared ethics review?"

Derek's gaze flicked to them, cold.

"Family signatures are complete. The patient herself strongly wishes to atone—" He caught himself. "—to contribute."

The slip was deliberate. Whispers rippled through the group.

Their eyes landed on me.

Curiosity. Pity. Contempt.

Like I was a medical specimen. Meat on a slab, waiting for the knife.

My nails dug into the sheets until they broke skin.

"You're lying!"