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.

"If it weren't for her cruelty, I never would have met you, my love," Julian murmured to Scarlett. "That three-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond necklace you were looking at? It's yours. In fact, pick something more expensive next time. I can afford it."

Watching them, the ache in my wrist felt like it was boring straight into my chest, stealing my breath. I wrenched my arm free from his iron grip. I refused to be a prop in their perfect life.

Just as I turned, Scarlett deliberately stuck out her foot, sending me sprawling.

"Oh my, Mrs. Dunn, you're so clumsy!"

I hit the pavement hard. The contents of my tote bag spilled out, scattering at Julian's feet. Seeing me fall, Julian's face tightened, and he instinctively reached down to help.

But Scarlett grabbed his hand, her voice sharp. "What's this?"

Julian's gaze dropped. A few bottles of cheap prescription medication rolled across the pavement, along with a medical alert card. The words on it were stark: ARTIFICIAL HEART PATIENT.

His eyes locked on the words. "Artificial Heart Patient..." A mask of fury twisted his features as he flung the card at my face. "Faking a heart condition for money, Rosalie? You haven't changed one bit. After seven years, it's still all about the money!"

I pushed myself to my feet, my gaze landing on Julian’s strong, healthy chest. A ghost of a smile touched my lips as I silently retrieved the card.

"Since you know how much I love money, Mr. Blackwood, why not lend me some?"

Scarlett clung to Julian's arm, her voice thick with manufactured sobs, but the look she shot me was pure venom. "Darling, maybe it's true? Besides, Mrs. Dunn left you, and that's how you got that kind person's heart! Shouldn't we help her out of gratitude?"

Her words were a calculated reminder of my abandonment. Julian froze, his face a war of anger and doubt.

"Some kind person's heart was wasted on you!" he roared. "You never deserved it!"

Julian pulled Scarlett away. She kept up her performance, pleading for me, but as she glanced back, her face twisted into a triumphant sneer.

I picked up the alert card, now marred by his shoe print. The mechanical heart in my chest gave an unnatural, painful jolt. My pupils dilated, and their retreating figures blurred into one.

After a long moment, I wiped a trickle of blood from my lip and stared at the words "Artificial Heart Patient." My fingers traced the faint scar that ran down the center of my chest, a seven-year-old reminder.

Julian still had no idea the heart beating inside him was mine.

Seven years ago, we were out of time. Julian was fading. The artificial heart technology back then was experimental, barely able to sustain basic functions, riddled with risks. When I discovered I was a perfect match, I made my choice. I would give him my heart. In return, I received the cheapest artificial model they had, with a theoretical lifespan of seven years.

Ever since, my life has been a series of sharp, stabbing pains. Coughing up blood, sudden weakness—it all became normal. With no money, the surgery to get a new model was always out of reach.

Just like that, seven years had passed. My artificial heart gave another violent, stuttering beat against my ribs. A familiar agony. It was long past its expiration date.

For five years, through poverty and illness, I had stood by Julian's side without a single complaint.

He knew how much I loved him; that's why he fought so hard to believe I would ever leave. And I knew how deeply he loved me; he would never have let me trade my life for his.

So, to save him, I had to be cruel. I feigned disgust at our poverty. I acted like I was suffocating, like I had lost all hope in our future.

I told him I was sick of the cheap medicine, of eating plain bread, that a life like that was driving me insane. I told him I was done.

I still remember the day I left. The boy who had faced his own death without flinching finally shattered, his tears blurring the ink as he signed the divorce papers.

And I signed my name on the organ donation consent form.

After the surgery, I left, my chest hollow in more ways than one, and returned to Seattle. I moved into a damp, dark basement apartment, surviving on odd jobs, waiting for the seven-year clock on my cheap heart to run out. I never expected to see Julian again. He moved on, becoming the man he was always meant to be, while I was frozen in the past. A wave of bitterness would wash over me whenever his confident face appeared on the news, always followed by a sharp, secret pang of relief.

My phone rang, shattering the memory.

It was the bank, informing me the fifty-thousand-dollar transfer had been "recalled by the sender." I had to return the funds immediately or face legal action.

I hung up, a silent, bitter laugh escaping my lips.

After a moment, I called my best friend, Chloe Chen, and asked her to help me find work. My weak heart meant most jobs were out of the question; I survived on small gigs. Chloe, knowing my limits, found me a position as a server at a charity gala—five hundred dollars for a night of relatively light work.

Dressed in the server's uniform and mandatory mask, I was carrying a tray of drinks through the gala when I saw him again. Julian stood tall and commanding in an expensive tuxedo. Scarlett, in a stunning haute couture gown, was radiant on his arm. Arms linked, they were the perfect power couple, the center of everyone's admiration.

I glanced at them and immediately looked away, disappearing into the crowd. Anonymous. But just as I turned a corner, Scarlett's voice cut through the air.

"What kind of service is this? Can't you see you've spilled a cocktail on my dress?"

I stopped, noticing for the first time a damp spot on her gown's hem. Without a word, I knelt to gently blot the stain with a napkin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian watching, his brow furrowed.

A flash of malice crossed Scarlett's eyes. She kicked out, the heel of her shoe driving hard into my chest. A blinding pain erupted, and I collapsed, a groan torn from my lips.

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands! Security, get her out of here!" Scarlett's face was a mask of fury, but her lips curled in a smirk of triumph.

Though the mask covered my face, he knew me the second our eyes met. A flicker of pain crossed his face before it was replaced by a cold sneer. He held up a hand, stopping the approaching guards, then strode forward and ripped the mask from my face.

"Rosalie," he sneered. "Have you fallen so low you can't even bear to show your face to your ex-husband?"