“J-just… get me a pen and some paper,” I said at last, forcing the words through a throat that felt scraped raw. “I need to write my will.”

Dr. Bennett frowned, clearly unsettled.

“I want everything documented,” I continued, each breath shallow and painful. “I’m severing all legal ties with my husband and with my parents. I want it clean. No loose ends. No ambiguity.”

Shock flashed across his face.

“Seraphina, you don’t need to make irreversible decisions while you’re in this state.”

“Yes,” I said, cutting him off before he could continue. “I do.”

My voice trembled, but my mind had never felt clearer.

“And after that… bring me the organ donation papers.”

He stared at me.

“If I don’t survive long enough to receive another heart,” I said quietly, “then I want mine donated to someone else.”

I swallowed hard.

“At least let my death matter to someone.”

This time, he didn’t argue.

Not once.

Not again.

Nikolai never returned.

Neither did my mother.

Nor my father.

But Evangeline did.

Not in person.

She sent videos.

Every single day.

The first video made my stomach twist.

It showed my bedroom.

Or rather, the room that used to belong to me.

Workers were repainting the walls. My books had been packed into cardboard boxes and stacked near the door. My closet stood wide open, stripped bare.

Nothing left.

Evangeline’s voice came from behind the camera, airy and cheerful.

“Nikolai says this room needs better ventilation for my recovery.”

She giggled.

“He thinks I’ll sleep better here.”

Nikolai.

Not my husband.

Not Dr. Laurent.

Just Nikolai.

Then came the word that nearly made me sick.

“Hubby.”

Hubby.

Behind her, my mother laughed softly.

“Of course you will,” she said warmly. “This room gets the nicest morning light.”

That night, another video arrived.

Evangeline sat on my bed, wrapped in a thick blanket. Nikolai entered the frame looking exhausted, his tie loosened, dark circles under his eyes.

But the second he saw her, everything about him softened.

The exhaustion vanished.

“Did you take your medication, baby?” he asked, voice gentle.

Baby.

Evangeline smiled sweetly.

“You remind me every single time, hubby.”

He sat beside her.

She immediately shifted closer.

Closer.

Until she climbed onto his lap like she had every right to be there.

No hesitation.

No shame.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t move too much,” he murmured, one hand settling securely around her waist. “Your stitches are still healing.”

From behind the camera, my father chuckled.

“Look at those two.”

His voice held approval.

“They’ve gotten close fast.”

My mother sounded pleased.

“Evangeline finally has someone who truly cherishes her.”

No one corrected them.

No one said the obvious.

No one mentioned that the man holding her was still my husband.

The next clip came the following afternoon.

Evangeline held up an old plush rabbit.

My rabbit.

The one Mom bought me when I was little because I used to cry whenever she worked overnight shifts and left me alone.

Its fur had thinned over the years from being hugged too tightly during lonely nights.

Evangeline wrinkled her nose.

“This thing is ancient.”

She laughed lightly.

“So ugly.”

Nikolai barely glanced at it.

“If it bothers you,” he said casually, “throw it out.”

Dad took the rabbit from her.

Without hesitation, he tossed it into a trash bag.

I replayed that clip three times.

Three.

As if watching it again might somehow make it hurt less.

It didn’t.

Then the messages started.

Text after text.

Message after message.

“Sera, I don’t think MY MUM ever truly liked you. She seems much happier now. Poor woman.”

Another.

“Dad says you’ve always been overly sensitive.”

Then another.

“You should apologize sincerely. Nikolai works so hard, and you humiliated him.”

Later that night, a new message arrived.

“Nikolai brought me to the balcony tonight.”

A smiling emoji followed.

“He said I deserve peace after everything I’ve endured.”

Attached was a photo.

Evangeline leaned against his chest, relaxed and content.

Nikolai’s arms wrapped around her.

My parents sat nearby, smiling at them as though witnessing something beautiful.

Something pure.

As if none of this were twisted.

Then came the final clip.

I nearly stopped breathing.

It was my bedroom.

My bed.

Them.

Evangeline beneath him.

Nikolai above her.

Slow.

Intimate.

Deliberate.

She moaned his name.

He gasped hers.

The monitor beside me began beeping faster.

Faster.

Faster.

My pulse spiked.

Instead of crying, I reached for my phone.

I opened my social media.

Changed my display name.

Seraphina Waiting for a Heart.

Then I uploaded everything.

My diagnosis.

My medical records.

Proof of the donor-heart match that had been redirected.

Screenshots.

Videos.

Evidence.

Then I began typing.

Slowly.

Carefully.

“There was a donor heart compatible with me.”

My fingers trembled.

“It was taken away.”

I kept going.

“My lying, cheating husband approved the transfer. My mother signed the documents. My father supported the decision.”

I inhaled shakily.

“I was told to be understanding.”

The cursor blinked.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then added one final paragraph.

“In what kind of world does a biological daughter become less important than the adopted daughter she was forced to call sister?”

My chest tightened.

I kept typing.

“And to make the humiliation complete, that same adopted orphan became my husband’s lover.”

Post.

I hit publish.

Three hours later, the ICU door slammed open so violently it struck the wall.

Nikolai stormed in first.

His hair was disheveled like he’d rushed here without stopping. His entire body radiated restrained fury.

My parents followed close behind.

“Seraphina.”

His voice was dangerously calm.

Too calm.

“What the fuck did you post?”

Before I could react, he snatched my phone from my hand.

“Delete it.”

His voice sharpened.

“Delete it right now.”

The screen flashed nonstop.

Notifications flooded in.

Thousands of shares.

Tens of thousands of comments.

My mother looked drained of color.

My father paced restlessly.

Nikolai turned back to me.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?”

His anger finally cracked through.

“People are hunting Evangeline down online!”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“Someone tracked down the orphanage where she grew up. She just had major surgery—she cannot handle this pressure.”

I looked at him quietly.

I felt strangely empty.

No rage.

No panic.

Nothing.

“What about me?” I asked.

My voice was calm.

“I’m the one lying in ICU.”

I held his gaze.

“Can I handle receiving daily videos from her?”

I spoke slowly.

“Videos of you both in my room?”

My lips trembled.

“Videos of my belongings being thrown away?”

My voice dropped.

“Videos of you fucking each other?”

Nikolai’s face hardened.

“She was trying to show you she cared.”

I laughed.

Dry.

Lifeless.

“Cared?”

I repeated.

“About what?”

I stared at him.

“About whether I’ll die soon enough so she can officially take my place as your wife?”

I raised my voice.

“Tell me!”

“Watch your mouth!”

The sharp command cut through the room.

Then movement behind him caught my eye.

Evangeline stepped inside.

Quietly.

Her eyes were red and swollen.

She leaned slightly against my mother as though too weak to stand alone.

“Nikolai…”

Her voice came soft and fragile.

She touched his arm.

“Don’t be too harsh on her.”

Her lashes lowered.

“She’s sick.”

Instantly, his entire demeanor changed.

His anger melted.

“Evangeline.”

His voice softened.

“You shouldn’t even be here.”

He brushed hair away from her face with infinite care.

“You need rest.”

She looked up at him.

“I was worried about you.”

His expression warmed.

“I’m fine.”

His thumb brushed her cheek.

“I’ll handle this.”

That tiny gesture broke something inside me.

Again.

My mother finally stepped forward.

“Seraphina, you aren’t thinking rationally.”

Her voice took on that calm, diplomatic tone she used in conferences.

“These posts are harming the hospital’s reputation.”

She folded her arms.

“They’re destroying everything we’ve worked for.”

I looked at her.

Quietly, I corrected her.

“Everything you built.”

Nikolai faced me again.

“Delete the post.”

His tone became clipped.

“Then issue a public statement.”

He spoke like giving medical orders.

“Say you were emotional. Say you exaggerated. Clarify that your condition affected your judgment.”

He leaned closer.

“End this. Now.”

I met his eyes.

“And if I refuse?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then I’ll make sure no hospital in this city accepts you.”

Silence.

“Do you understand?”

No hesitation.

No compassion.

Only power.

Authority.

Control.

I slowly turned toward my mother.

“Are you cutting off my medical funding again?”

Her gaze shifted away.

Only for a second.

But that second told me everything.

Answer received.

My mother straightened, spine rigid.

Her face became clinical.

Emotionless.

“As of today, you are discharged.”

She spoke like reading policy.

“Our hospital will not continue accommodating a patient who creates public disruption.”

The door opened again.

Dr. Bennett rushed inside.

“Dr. Whitmore, she cannot be discharged in this condition.”

My mother didn’t blink.

“Then transfer her elsewhere.”

Her voice remained ice-cold.

“She will not remain here.”

Nikolai bent until only I could hear him.

His voice dropped low.

“Delete the post, Seraphina.”

Each word came deliberate.

“Apologize publicly.”

A pause.

“Say you lied because you were mentally unstable.”

Another pause.

“Protect Evangeline.”

Protect Evangeline.

Not save me.

Not help me.

Not choose me.

Protect Evangeline.

I stared at him.

Really stared.

This was the man who once held my hand during every checkup.

The man who promised he would fight beside me.

Now he was fighting against me.

I felt nothing.

No grief.

Just clarity.

“Do whatever you want.”

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

Evangeline tugged gently at his sleeve.

“Nikolai… please.”

Her voice trembled.

“Let’s go.”

She looked worried.

“I don’t want you getting stressed.”

He turned to her instantly.

All softness again.

“Okay.”

Warm.

Gentle.

“I’m coming.”

My mother paused near the doorway.

Then she looked back.

“Don’t call us heartless.”

Her expression hardened.

“You ruined Evangeline’s life first.”

Then they left.

The door shut.

Silence returned.

Dr. Bennett stood beside my bed for what felt like forever.

Finally, he spoke.

Barely above a whisper.

“I can help transfer you to another hospital.”

He hesitated.

“Even another city.”

I stared at the ceiling.

“No.”

The word came soft.

“No need.”

I swallowed.

“Thank you… for everything, Dr. Bennett.”

I exhaled.

“But I’m tired.”

And I was.

So tired.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of begging.

Tired of waiting for someone—anyone—to finally choose me.

The next morning, I signed my own discharge papers.

The billing statement showed an unpaid balance of nineteen thousand dollars.

So she really did it.

My mother had cut funding completely.

I transferred the last of my savings.

Used every remaining cent.

For the rest, I signed a promissory note.

Then I did the one thing I swore I never would.

I called Dr. Alexander Sterling.

Nikolai’s stepbrother.

His rival.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then he answered.

“What now?”

His voice was sharp and impatient.

“Why are you calling me?”

A beat passed.

“I thought you hated me.”

I swallowed.

Even standing hurt.

Pain clawed through my chest.

“Please.”

The word came stripped of pride.

“I need your help.”

Silence.

Long.

Heavy.

“I’m not anyone’s wife anymore,” I said.

My throat tightened.

“I’m not anyone’s daughter either.”

Nothing.

Then I forced out the truth.

“I’m dying, Argus.”

His breathing changed.

The silence sharpened.

Then his voice came, stripped of all sarcasm.

“I’m coming to get you.”

The call ended.

My chest felt like it was on fire as I dragged my suitcase out of the inpatient ward.

Each step sent pain tearing through my body, sharp enough to make it feel as though my ribs were splitting apart from the inside. Still, I kept moving.

No one offered assistance.

Not a single nurse stopped me to ask whether I was even well enough to leave.

No one cared.

“Seraphina!”

I froze.

At the bottom of the stairs, they were waiting.

All of them.

My mother.

My father.

Evangeline.

And Nikolai.

Standing side by side.

Together.

As if I were the outsider intruding on their family.

My mother looked immaculate, as always. Her makeup was flawless, her suit perfectly tailored, and her expression carried just the right amount of carefully rehearsed concern.

“Sera, what are you doing?” she asked as she hurried toward me. “Why are you checking yourself out? You’re far too weak to leave. Come back inside.”

I shifted away before her hand could reach me.

“Dr. Whitmore,” I said coldly, “just say whatever it is you came here to say.”

For a fraction of a second, her polished smile faltered.

Then it returned.

Controlled. Elegant. Fake.

“The press is gathered in the conference room,” she said smoothly. “We need to clear up this misunderstanding.”

I stared at her.

“Misunderstanding?”

My voice sharpened.

“Which misunderstanding, exactly?”

I tilted my head.

“The part where I supposedly don’t have heart disease?”

I took a breath.

“Or the part where my husband gave my donor heart to that bitch?”

My father’s expression darkened.

“Mind your language.”

Evangeline stepped forward then, her eyes shimmering with carefully gathered tears.

“Sera… please,” she said softly. “Don’t do this.”

Her voice trembled.

“If you’re angry, direct it at me.”

She clasped her hands together.

“I’ll explain everything to the media myself. I’ll leave if that helps.”

Her voice broke.

“I can go back to the orphanage.”

She lowered her gaze.

“If that makes things easier for everyone.”

Before I could respond, Nikolai moved.

He gently guided Evangeline behind him, his palm settling protectively against the small of her back.

“Don’t say that.”

His voice softened instantly.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Then he looked at me.

Every trace of warmth vanished.

His face hardened.

“You’ve humiliated this entire hospital,” he said, his tone cold and unforgiving. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

I swallowed against the pain in my chest.

“I told the truth.”

His jaw tightened.

“The truth?”

He gave a short, bitter laugh.

“You’re emotional. You’re unstable. You’re not thinking clearly.”

My mother gave a small nod, as though he had stated something perfectly rational.

Then Nikolai closed the distance between us.

His hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.

Hard.

The pressure sent pain shooting up my arm and triggered a violent spasm in my chest.

I nearly dropped my suitcase.

“Let go,” I whispered.

“We’re going to the conference room.”

It wasn’t a request.

It was an order.

“I can walk.”

“Then walk.”

But he didn’t release me.

Instead, he dragged me down the hallway anyway.

Pain pulsed through my body, each step worsening the tightness in my chest. Humiliation burned even hotter.

Nurses stared.

Interns whispered.

Every pair of eyes followed us.

Behind me, I heard Evangeline’s soft voice.

“Nikolai… don’t be too rough.”

But when I turned slightly, I saw it.

The faint twitch at the corner of her lips.

The way her smile almost widened.

“I won’t,” he replied.

Still, his grip never loosened.

It hurt.

Not just my wrist.

Everything.

This was the same man who once promised he would protect me.

The same hands that used to hold mine during procedures, calming me when I was afraid.

Now those same hands were forcing me forward like I was a problem that needed managing.

My parents walked behind us as if this were normal.

As if I weren’t their daughter.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

I stopped resisting.

“I’ll go.”

…

Inside the conference room, Evangeline immediately took the seat beside Nikolai.

No—closer than beside.

He pulled her chair toward his until their shoulders nearly touched.

One arm rested behind her, fingers lightly brushing her shoulder, as though shielding her from the world.

I sat at the far end of the table.

Alone.

No one chose the chair beside me.

My mother and father remained behind them, silent and watchful, like spectators enduring a difficult performance.

One reporter spoke first.

“Dr. Nikolai Laurent, can you explain your decision regarding the donor heart? Why was it reassigned?”

Nikolai accepted the microphone without hesitation.

Calm.

Collected.

Untouchable.

“As a physician,” he began, “I made the decision based on medical logic and projected outcome.”

His voice never shook.

“The patient who received the transplant had a significantly better expected recovery rate.”

The patient.

Not Evangeline.

Not even her name.

And certainly not mine.

“My wife’s case was medically complex,” he continued. “There were substantial risks involved.”

Risks.

Evangeline’s fingers curled around his sleeve.

Nikolai immediately looked down at her.

“It isn’t your fault,” he murmured, gently sweeping hair away from her face. “Ignore the noise.”

The tenderness in his voice hurt more than the disease ever had.

A reporter turned toward me.

“Miss Seraphina, do you agree with your husband’s explanation?”

The microphone was thrust toward my face.

I took a breath.

“Yes,” I said softly.

The room visibly relaxed.

“Dr. Nikolai Laurent is extremely responsible.”

For half a second, everyone exhaled.

Then I continued.

“He’s especially responsible when Evangeline is involved.”

The silence returned instantly.

Nikolai’s jaw flexed.

“Seraphina.”

I ignored the warning.

“You gave her my heart.”

I looked directly at him.

“Not only as a doctor.”

My voice sharpened.

“As my husband.”

I swallowed.

“As her lover.”

“Enough.”

His voice came low and dangerous.

I continued anyway.

“You held my hand and told me no compatible donors existed.”

My voice trembled.

“You told me all we could do was wait.”

I leaned forward.

“And then you signed the paperwork and handed that heart to her.”

Evangeline began crying again.

Softly.

Nikolai immediately pulled her closer.

“Stop attacking her.”

Anger flashed in his eyes.

“She just survived major surgery.”

I laughed weakly.

“So was I.”

The words barely came out.

I was surviving too.

Suddenly Nikolai stood.

His palm slammed against the table with a loud crack.

“You’re being emotional again.”

His voice snapped like a whip.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you speaking.”

Behind him, my mother shifted but stayed silent.

My father refused to meet my eyes.

My heartbeat became erratic.

My vision blurred at the edges.

Still, I spoke.

“You always choose her.”

My voice shook.

“When she moved into our house, you gave her my room because she liked the sunlight.”

I stared at him.

“When I asked why, you called me unreasonable.”

Nikolai’s face turned rigid.

“It was only a room.”

I laughed.

Broken.

“It was my room.”

His expression darkened.

“Everything doesn’t revolve around you.”

The words landed like a blade.

I smiled bitterly.

“No.”

I turned toward the cameras.

“It never does.”

I looked straight into the lenses.

Let them capture every second.

“My husband chose my adopted sister over me.”

My voice slowed.

“My parents supported him.”

I inhaled painfully.

“So tell me this.”

I let the question hang.

“If a doctor won’t save his own wife because he prefers someone else…”

My voice cracked.

“Would you trust him with your life?”

“Seraphina.”

Nikolai stepped toward me.

His voice became a warning.

“Shut up.”

Evangeline clutched his arm.

“Nikolai, please… don’t fight.”

Immediately his tone softened.

“I’m not fighting.”

He touched her hand.

“I’m here.”

Then his gaze returned to me.

All steel.

“Sit down.”

My heart began pounding violently.

Too fast.

Too hard.

Every beat felt wrong.

Pain exploded through my chest.

I tried to steady myself.

My knees gave out.

The floor rushed upward.

I collapsed.

Someone screamed.

Warm liquid filled my mouth.

Blood.

Reporters surged forward.

Camera flashes exploded nonstop.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

My mother suddenly panicked.

“Stop filming!”

Her voice broke.

“She’s exaggerating!”

She pointed at me.

“She just wants attention!”

My father tried to block the cameras.

Nikolai dropped beside me.

But there was no panic in his face.

Only frustration.

“Seraphina!”

His voice was sharp with irritation.

“Stop this.”

His hands gripped my shoulders.

“Enough with the acting.”

His lip curled.

“Quit behaving like some FAMAS actress.”

I smiled.

Blood ran from the corner of my mouth.

For the first time…

Everyone could see.

Dr. Bennett shoved through the crowd carrying a defibrillator.

He dropped beside me.

Pads pressed to my chest.

Once.

Twice.

His voice cut through the chaos.

“Clear!”

My body jerked.

Everything felt distant.

Muted.

Far away.

I think I smiled.

At least the cameras saw all of it.

Then a voice reached me from somewhere impossibly far.

Clinical.

Detached.

Professional.

“Seraphina Whitmore Laurent.”

A pause.

“Female. Twenty-five years old.”

Another pause.

Then the final words.

“Time of death: 10:06 a.m.”

And just like that—

I stopped being their burden.

I stopped being an inconvenience.

I stopped being the problem.

Nikolai’S POV

Ten seconds passed and no one breathed.

The monitor kept giving that long, flat sound and it started drilling into my skull.

“That’s impossible! Dr. Bennett, what kind of stunt is this? Are you seriously helping her stage something like this in front of the press?”

He didn’t answer me. He just stared.

I pushed past two nurses and dropped to my knees beside her. Sera was lying there, eyes half open, blood at the corner of her mouth and she wasn’t moving at all.

“Sera!” I said sharply, grabbing her shoulders, “enough. Get up. This isn’t funny and this isn’t how you prove a point.”

I shook her harder than I meant to.

“Wake up! You’ve already embarrassed everyone. Don’t take it this far.”

Her head rolled to the side.

Dr. Bennett shoved me back. “Stop it!”

“Don’t touch her like that,” he snapped, then pointed at her chest. “Look at her properly, Nikolai. Look.”

He grabbed her file from a nurse and slammed it onto the conference table. Papers scattered and cameras zoomed in.

“For three months her numbers have been crashing and I told you every single time she couldn’t wait any longer,” his voice shaking was with anger. “Her oxygen saturation was eighty eight percent at rest last week and her lactate kept climbing. Those are end stage marker!”

He threw another report down. “You’re a cardiac surgeon. Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what that means.”

Behind me I heard a choked sound.

“Sera!” her mother cried, heels scraping against the floor as she ran forward. “Sera, baby, answer me.”

Her father rushed too and nearly tripped over a chair. “Call her name, call her name,” he kept saying like it was a spell that would fix this. “Sera, sweetheart, open your eyes.”

Her mother fell to her knees on the other side and touched her face with shaking hands. “She’s cold... She’s just fainted. She’s always had low blood pressure. She’s strong, she’ll compensate.”

Dr. Bennett looked at her. “You cut off her medication funds. She signed an IOU yesterday.”

Her father froze. “What are you talking about?”

“She had twenty dollars in her pocket,” Bennett said. “Twenty. She couldn’t even afford antibiotics.”

Her mother’s face crumpled and she shook her head over and over. “No. I just wanted her to calm down and apologize. I never thought…”

“You never thought she’d collapse?” Bennett shot back. “You’re the head of cardiac surgery.”

I leaned down again and pressed my fingers to Sera’s neck.

Nothing.

My hands felt numb.

“She’s young,” I muttered. “Her compensatory mechanisms are strong. She’s just in shock. Move. Get the crash cart. Start compressions.”

Her father grabbed her hand. “Sera, it’s Dad. You hear me? Don’t scare us like this.”

Her mother started sobbing openly. “My baby, please. You can’t do this to me. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

Cameras were flashing nonstop.

Bennett’s voice cut through everything. “Assess her yourself, Nikolai. You’re the one who signed that transplant decision. Check her pulse. Listen to her heart. Look at her pupils and tell everyone what you find.”

The room went completely silent.

I leaned down and put my ear to her chest.

Nothing.

I checked her pupils.

Fixed.

The flat line kept ringing and it felt like it was mocking me.

“N-no! No, this is wrong! This is a mistake. I made the right call. Evangeline needed that heart. Sera could hold on. She always held on.”

“Sera, please, Mom is here.” Her mother let out a broken scream and collapsed against her husband. “I’m here. Wake up.”

Her father’s voice cracked as he kept repeating her name like he could drag her back with it.

I stared at her face and for the first time I couldn’t control my voice.

“Sera… fuck! Open your eyes. I’m telling you to wake up.”

She didn’t move.

Mrs. Whitmore crouched down slowly, like her bones had aged twenty years in ten seconds. Her fingers pressed against Sera’s neck.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Her hand slipped.

She fell back onto the floor.

“No… no…” she whispered, shaking her head like that alone could reverse it. “That’s not right. I checked her labs yesterday. She was stable enough to argue with me. She stood there and fought with me. She looked me in the eye. That’s not someone who dies the next day.”

Dr. Bennett’s voice was cold. “She used the last of her strength to argue with you.”

Her father dropped to his knees beside Sera and grabbed her hand. “Sera. Sera, sweetheart. Enough. Open your eyes. Dad’s here. Don’t do this. You hear me? You don’t get to scare us like this.”

I was still frozen.

Then something snapped.

I lunged forward and pushed past everyone.

“Move.”

I grabbed her shoulders again.

“Sera,” I said sharply, shaking her. “Stop it. This isn’t funny. You don’t win like this. You don’t prove a point like this. Open your eyes right now.”

Her head lolled.

I slapped her cheek lightly.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Nothing.

I pressed my fingers to her neck again. Nothing. I leaned down and put my ear to her chest.

“No,” I muttered. “No. I know this heart rhythm. This is temporary. It’s reversible. We can shock her. We can intubate. Get the crash cart.”

No one moved fast enough.

I bent down and started chest compressions myself.

“Come on!” I growled through my teeth. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve survived worse. You don’t get to quit on me.”

Her mother crawled closer, sobbing openly now. “Sera, Mommy was wrong. I was angry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t have forced you. Just wake up and yell at me again. I’ll let you win. I’ll let you say whatever you want.”

Her father was crying too, gripping her foot like he was afraid she’d disappear. “I’ll cancel everything. I’ll resign. I’ll go public and fix it. Just come back. Please.”

I leaned down and grabbed her hand and brought it to my lips.

Her skin was cold.

“Sera,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Look at me, baby... You don’t get to leave me. I made a decision as a doctor. That’s all it was. A decision. You’re my wife. You don’t get to punish me like this.”

I kissed her knuckles again.

“Open your eyes and yell at me. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m heartless. Just say something.”

Dr. Bennett’s voice cut in, tight. “Nikolai. Stop.”