My Donor Heart Went to His Mistress

The heart that should have kept me alive was handed to someone else by my own husband.

By the time the transplant surgery ended successfully, the hospital lobby had descended into chaos. Journalists crowded every corner. Camera flashes exploded nonstop. Questions were hurled from every direction.

“Dr. Nikolai Laurent, sources say your wife has been waiting for a transplant for three years—”

Nikolai cut the reporter off before the question could even finish.

“My wife understands the responsibility that comes with being married to a physician,” he said, his tone smooth and composed. “She knows the patient’s welfare comes first. She supported the choice I made.”

Supported.

That word echoed bitterly in my head.

Three months earlier, he had sat across from me and told me there had been complications with the donor heart. According to him, the organ wasn’t compatible. He said there was nothing to do except wait a little longer.

Wait.

Now Evangeline—my adopted sister—stood beside him, fragile-looking yet radiant, her fingers intertwined with his as though he were some savior descended from heaven.

“He saved me,” she said tearfully. “Not only did he perform my surgery, he took care of me afterward too. He brought me home himself and made sure I recovered properly. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me without him…”

Right. He brought her home.

For six months, he pushed me out of our bedroom so Evangeline could heal “comfortably.” He told me I should stay with my mother since it would supposedly be quieter there.

My mother.

The same woman who had always loved Evangeline more than she ever loved me.

I watched them embrace under the lights, looking flawless together. They resembled a magazine cover—beautiful, grateful, intimate.

And there I was, standing off to the side while something sharp twisted inside my chest.

Not just illness.

Something far worse.

Loneliness.

I tried slipping away so I could take my medication, but before I got far, a reporter caught my arm and tugged me toward the stage.

I couldn’t force a smile.

So Nikolai smiled enough for both of us.

Then he made the announcement.

“After today, we’ll make things official,” he said into the microphone. “Evangeline has already become family to us. My wife’s parents plan to legally adopt her. She’ll officially become part of our family—and my wife fully supports that decision.”

Supports it?

That nearly made me laugh.

A chill spread through me, icy and hollow.

Without thinking, I reached for the microphone.

“Now that you finally have the daughter you actually wanted,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence, “I’ll leave. I wouldn’t want to ruin this picture-perfect family moment.”

I let the microphone fall and turned to walk away.

Nikolai’s hand clamped around my wrist before I could take another step.

His grip hurt.

“Evangeline still needs long-term recovery,” he said under his breath, his voice sharp and dangerous. “Do you even realize what you’re doing? The press is watching. Stress could worsen her condition. Are you trying to harm her?”

Harm her?

I stared at him.

The man before me looked familiar, yet he felt like a stranger.

My mother hurried over as well.

“There are cameras everywhere,” she hissed. “Control yourself. At least pretend. Think about appearances. Think about the hospital.”

Not once did anyone ask if I was alright.

Not once did they look me in the eye.

Together, they dragged me back toward the podium. They told me to apologize. Told me to stop humiliating everyone.

The three of them stood together, hands linked.

I stood apart.

A few feet away.

Like some unstable outsider who had crashed an event she didn’t belong in.

Something broke.

Completely.

I snatched the framed photo reporters had just given Nikolai—the one showing him and Evangeline smiling after her surgery—and hurled it onto the floor.

Glass shattered.

Then I stomped on the frame.

After that, I shoved over the award the hospital had presented him.

It crashed down with a violent clang.

Nikolai looked at me with open disgust.

As though I was filth.

“I raised a monster,” my mother muttered.

“Ungrateful and pathetic.”

A laugh escaped me.

It sounded wrong.

Foreign.

“Ungrateful?” I repeated.

“When my myocarditis worsened, you told me it wasn’t serious. You told me to go to the emergency room by myself and get IV treatment like it was nothing.”

I turned toward Nikolai.

“But Evangeline’s lab results shifted slightly, and suddenly every top specialist in the country was being called overnight.”

My voice stayed calm.

Almost unnaturally so.

“I waited three years for a transplant,” I continued. “For three years, you told me to be patient. To endure. To be understanding.”

I swallowed.

“But no one told me that ‘understanding’ meant surrendering my life so she could keep hers.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Only camera shutters remained.

Click.

Flash.

Click.

No one spoke.

Nikolai recovered first.

“Sera,” he said quickly, stepping toward me, “we should discuss this privately.”

“Privately?”

I laughed again.

This time it came out ugly—wet, broken, desperate.

Tears streamed down my face, though I couldn’t even remember when they had started.

“Three years ago, when I was trembling in the ER because every heartbeat felt like a knife tearing through my chest… where were you?”

No answer.

No denial.

Nothing.

“The attending physician said I needed admission,” I continued. “But you told me beds were limited. You said someone in worse condition needed it more.”

My gaze shifted to Evangeline.

She stood close to them, small and delicate, clinging to my husband’s hand like that was exactly where she belonged.

Understanding hit me like a blade.

“Oh,” I whispered.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

“Now I understand.”

I looked at all of them.

“That excuse about no beds being available?”

I let out a slow breath.

“You weren’t short on beds.”

My voice dropped.

“You were saving one for her.”

I stared directly at my mother.

“For the daughter who mattered.”

My father rushed forward and seized my wrist.

“Enough,” he said through clenched teeth.

I yanked free so hard it felt like touching fire.

Then I looked straight at him.

“And you.”

My voice shook.

“I’m your biological daughter. Your blood.”

My throat tightened.

“You knew my heart wouldn’t survive another year.”

I could barely force the words out.

“You knew.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“And even then, you agreed to give my matching donor heart to her.”

My voice splintered.

A bitter, trembling laugh escaped me.

“What is she to you?”

I looked between both my parents.

“Your secret child?”

“Did the two of you have another daughter and forget to tell me?”

Before I could finish, my mother struck me.

The slap rang through the lobby.

Pain exploded across my cheek.

“You’ve completely lost your mind,” she snapped. “Apologize to Evangeline. Right now.”

I tasted iron.

Blood.

“Apologize?”

The laugh that left me sounded fractured, almost inhuman.

“I’ve been admitted to intensive care so many times I stopped counting.”

My breathing grew shallow.

“I nearly died more than once.”

I looked at Nikolai.

“Your colleagues tried arranging a private room for me.”

My voice hardened.

“They wanted to help.”

I stepped closer.

“But you refused.”

I swallowed against the pressure crushing my chest.

“You said we shouldn’t abuse connections just because I’m your wife.”

Each word hurt.

“So explain something to me.”

I pressed a trembling hand to my chest.

“Why do rules suddenly stop mattering for her?”

I pointed at Evangeline.

“She wasn’t even critical yet.”

My voice rose.

“And still—you moved heaven and earth.”

I looked at them all.

Nikolai.

My mother.

My father.

Each of them stood closer to Evangeline than to me.

Not one moved toward me.

Not one.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

My voice cracked under the weight of it.

“You’re doctors.”

I looked at Nikolai.

“You save people.”

Then at my parents.

“I was dying.”

Tears spilled harder.

“So why was I the one who had to move aside?”

Silence.

Again.

They stared at me like I was unreasonable.

Like I was the problem.

Something inside me emptied.

“Fine,” I said softly.

I wiped my tears with shaking fingers.

“If you love her that much…”

My lips trembled.

“Then make it official.”

I forced a smile.

“Make her your real daughter.”

My voice nearly vanished.

“Replace me properly.”

I turned.

I tried to leave.

Then pain exploded.

My chest seized so violently it felt as though an invisible fist had wrapped around my heart and crushed.

Air vanished.

My knees buckled.

I couldn’t breathe.

I coughed.

Warm liquid surged into my mouth.

Blood.

The world tilted.

The floor rushed upward.

Darkness swallowed everything.

—

When consciousness returned, my body felt unbearably heavy.

Every breath dragged.

My chest felt like concrete.

Each heartbeat was slow.

Painful.

Wrong.

Glass separated me from the hallway.

Isolation.

I could barely move, but voices drifted in from outside.

One voice stood out.

Dr. Bennett.

A colleague of my mother’s.

He spoke quietly, though not quietly enough.

“This collapse was caused by worsening acute heart failure,” he said. “Given her dilated cardiomyopathy… even under the most optimistic estimate, she has less than six months.”

A pause.

Then the words that froze my blood.

“If she suffers another episode like this…”