My Heart Beating in His Chest

The day Julian Blackwood was named Innovator of the Year, my doctor told me my time was running out. The artificial heart keeping me alive was failing, and a new one was a price I could never pay.

On a live podcast, the host asked Julian to call the one person he most regretted meeting.

Without hesitation, he dialed my number.

I answered. Julian's voice came through the phone, cool and distant. "Do you regret it? Leaving me for fifty thousand dollars?"

Staring at the astronomical cost of a new heart, I let out a hollow laugh. "Considering how rich you are now, Julian, what's another five hundred thousand?"

The line went dead. I watched Julian on the screen, his expression freezing over as he told the world, "Now, I have no regrets."

He never knew that when heart failure was killing him, I was the one who secretly gave him my heart—the real one—just so he could live.

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1

After the live broadcast ended, a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer from Julian Blackwood hit my account.

I froze, a bitter knot of emotions tightening in my chest.

After paying my hospital deposit, I headed to the farmer's market for cheap vegetables.

Through the throng of shoppers, I spotted him.

Seven years had passed, yet time had been kind to him. The only difference was the woman on his arm. Not me. The podcast must have just wrapped; he was still in a sharp, custom-tailored jacket, now picking out organic strawberries and placing them gently into her basket.

I watched as he gathered Scarlett Monroe into his arms and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

I ducked my head, pretending I hadn't seen a thing, and tried to slip away.

But a hand clamped around my wrist. Julian.

Startled, I looked up into his cold gaze.

His eyes swept over me, filled with a chilling disdain. "Seven years, and the first thing you do is try to extort money from me?"

My lips parted, a thousand rebuttals dying before they could form. What was the use? Instead, I heard myself say, "Julian, please... I need another four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Julian went still, a flicker of raw anger igniting in his icy eyes. His grip tightened. "We haven't seen each other in seven years, and that's all you have to say?"

The faded needle marks on my wrist from countless IV drips throbbed sharply.

I took a shaky breath. "You're a wealthy man," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. "What will your new wife think if you refuse? That you still can't bear to see me suffer?"

Julian looked taken aback, his expression hardening into something unreadable. Just as he was about to speak, Scarlett latched onto his arm.

"Darling, is this your ex-wife?" Scarlett's eyes scanned me with feigned sympathy. "What do you even need that much money for? A purse I'm wearing costs more than that. It's a real shame you didn't appreciate him. Then again, if you hadn't so cruelly abandoned him, I never would have met my wonderful husband, would I?"

I said nothing, my mind drifting.

Julian and I had met in college, fallen in love, gotten married. He wasn't a tech mogul, and I wasn't a walking time bomb. We were just two kids out of the foster system, trying to scrape together a life that was ours.

Just as our careers were finally taking off, Julian was diagnosed with a severe heart condition. The treatment and transplant costs were staggering. We burned through our savings in a heartbeat. I worked three jobs, ate one meal a day, and saved every penny for his medication—and even then, only the cheapest generics.

But we still couldn't find a donor heart.

As I watched Julian weaken by the day, hope dwindling into despair, the doctors told me they’d found a perfect match.

The donor... was me.

The memory slammed into me, sharp and sudden.

In front of me, Julian gently wiped a smudge of jam from the corner of Scarlett's mouth, his gaze soft with an affection that used to be for me.