Yolanda's eyes filled with tears as she reached for my hand. "Seeing you like this, Callum… it breaks my heart. If your dad hadn’t been in critical condition, I never would’ve let you donate your last kidney."

Hearing those words after everything I had just found out made my stomach twist. My fingers curled into the blanket, but I forced myself to stay calm.

I took a slow breath. "Yolanda… this artificial kidney… it's unbearable. The pain never stops. I don’t think I can do this anymore. Maybe Jordan could—"

"No!" Her sharp voice cut through the room like a slap.

Maybe she realized how harsh she sounded, because the next second, she softened her tone, brushing my hair back gently. "Callum, you know you can't take back something you've already donated. That’s not how it works.

“Jordan’s health is fragile and matching kidney donors are so rare. You were the only one willing to help him. Do you really want him to suffer? To die?"

She looked me straight in the eyes as she said it, her expression full of sincerity. And in that moment, I knew, she didn’t feel guilty at all.

I thought back to the night it all started.

Jordan and my fiancée at the time, Kyra Silverman, got into a terrible car accident. Jordan was badly injured and needed a kidney transplant. Kyra and Yolanda begged me to save him, making me feel like I had no choice.

It wasn’t until later that I learned the truth. The crash didn’t happen because of bad weather or reckless driving.

It happened because Jordan and Kyra were screwing around in the car—literally. And yet, I was the one who paid the price.

Yolanda stroked my face, her voice soft. "Be good, okay? You have an artificial kidney now and it's keeping you alive, isn’t it? I’ll get you two painkillers and then I’ll hold you until you fall asleep. It won’t hurt, I promise."

Yeah, right. If artificial kidneys were so great, why didn’t she make Jordan get one? Because she couldn’t stand the thought of him suffering.

That night, I made her warm milk like always, only this time, I slipped in two sleeping pills.

She fell asleep fast. Maybe too fast. Her body relaxed, her chest rising and falling steadily. And that was when I noticed it, just a small glimpse of ink peeking out from beneath her pajama collar. A tattoo.

I hesitated, then carefully unbuttoned her top a little. It was a delicate tattoo of a little princess holding a rose.

And on the petals of that rose, one name was written. Jordan.

No wonder she always insisted on wearing pajamas to bed. No wonder she never let me see her fully undressed, even when we were making love.

I had never really been her husband, just a fool she used to keep her real love alive. I used to think it was just a habit of hers, nothing more. But now, everything made sense.

Every choice she made, every careful decision—it was all a lie.

My hands trembled as I reached for my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I needed. A childhood friend. A doctor. Someone I could trust.

The call barely rang before he picked up.

"I need you to do a surgery for me," I said, my voice calm. Too calm.

A beat of silence. Then, "Callum… are you sure?"

"Yes," I answered without hesitation. "I won’t regret it. See you in three days."

If Yolanda could take my father’s life and destroy my body without a second thought, then I had no reason to accept her pity.

I set my phone down and turned toward her laptop. It was unlocked. She had always been careless with her passwords, never expecting me to look.

A folder on the desktop caught my attention. [The Beloved Rose.]

I clicked on it and my screen flooded with photos and videos of Jordan. Over ten gigabytes' worth.

File after file, endless proof of her devotion. Then, I found their chat logs. Screenshots—meticulously saved, each labeled with a date.

I scrolled through them, bile rising in my throat. She had given him everything. Watches, jewelry, luxury trips.

And then, the best part; an entire castle. Because Jordan had once texted her, [Yolanda, I think the air in Serica is terrible. What if it slows down my scar recovery? I’m your prince, right? All the princes in movies live in castles.]

And just like that, she bought him one.

I kept scrolling, coming across a newer picture—Jordan lifting his shirt, showing off his scars.

Except… there were no scars. The best plastic surgeons in Serica had already taken care of them.

Meanwhile, I looked down at my own body, at the deep, ugly scars cutting across my stomach. No fancy surgeons for me. No castle. Just pain.

I closed the folder, my breath uneven. But then, another file caught my eye. A spreadsheet.

[Jordan's Spare Organ Bank.]

I opened it, my chest tightening as I read through the list. More than a dozen names. Each with a price tag.

[No. 1: Willing to donate organs for 300 thousand dollars. A little old, temporarily for Jordan.]

[No. 2: Willing to donate organs for 600 thousand dollars. Quite greedy. Kidney health is good, but unfortunately, she’s a woman. I don’t want another woman’s organ inside Jordan’s body. Temporary backup.]

I gripped the laptop so hard my knuckles turned white. It was a damn spare parts list.

Of course, my name was on the list too.

[Callum Lister – suitable gender, suitable age, high kidney match. Jordan felt great after using one. Can take the second one. Compensation: none. Economical and affordable.]

I stared at those words, my stomach twisting. Economical and affordable.

That was all I was to her. Not her husband. Not someone she cared about. Just a convenient organ donor with a perfect match.

I felt a strange kind of numbness settle in, like my brain refused to process the betrayal all at once. Without thinking, I printed out the list, along with the divorce agreement I had prepared earlier.

Then, I sat down on the couch and stayed there all night. By morning, my back ached from sitting so long, but my mind was clearer.

Yolanda walked in, assuming I had just woken up early. She didn’t suspect a thing. As usual, she placed a bowl of porridge in front of me.

"Here, I tried a new recipe today. Let me know if you like it," she said with a smile. Because of my artificial kidney, I could only eat soft food. She made sure I had something warm and nutritious every morning, always switching up the ingredients so I wouldn’t get bored.

I used to think it was sweet. Now, it just made me feel sick.

She noticed me hesitating and frowned. "Callum, are you okay? Why aren’t you eating? Do you want me to make something else?"

My fingers brushed against the divorce papers in my pocket. "Yolanda, we need to—"

Before I could finish, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and instantly, her whole expression changed. A gentle expression appeared in her face as she quickly picked up. "Hello? Mm… Of course, I didn’t forget. Everything is ready. See you later."

She turned back to me with an apologetic smile. "Callum, something urgent came up at work. I have to go in and it might take a while. If you need anything, let’s talk when I get back, okay?"

She grabbed her coat and left before I could get another word in. I let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched porridge in front of me.

Even now, after everything, I wasn’t her priority. Even now, I was waiting for her.

That evening, my phone buzzed with a text. [Callum, it’s me. My phone is dead. Come to the Crown Hotel, I have a surprise for you.]

Yolanda.

I checked the date, it was my birthday. I almost laughed. Perfect timing. I was going to see her anyway—I still had things to say.

When I arrived at the hotel, I overheard two waiters talking near the entrance. "Ms. Sinclair really goes all out for her husband, huh?" one of them said, sounding impressed.

"Right? She booked the entire top floor and filled it with roses. Not just any roses, either, some super rare variety. She even had them flown in on private jets. Can you imagine? Just because her husband's favorite flower is roses!"

"You see that watch Ms. Sinclair just gave her husband? That thing could probably buy a whole country!" one of the waiters gushed.

The other sighed. "I know, right? I heard she got it as a welcome-home gift just for him. Seriously, how lucky can a guy get?"

And just like that, it all made sense why Yolanda never gave me roses and why she used sunflowers when she proposed.

I had asked for a rose once. Just one. She laughed, said they were too fragile, too delicate—not for me.

Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t that I didn’t suit roses. It was that Jordan did and to her, I simply wasn’t worth them.

The realization sat heavy in my chest as I stepped into the hall. That was when I saw them.

Yolanda, standing in the middle of a sea of roses, carefully fastening an expensive watch onto Jordan’s wrist. She adjusted it with a tenderness I hadn’t seen from her in years, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

They looked like they belonged there. like they were the perfect couple. Jordan noticed me then. His brows pulled together in confusion before he let out a dramatic scoff.

"What’s up with security tonight? Since when do they let beggars in?" His voice carried over the crowd, drawing even more attention my way. "Get him out of here before he ruins the party Yolanda threw for me!"

Laughter followed. Whispers spread like wildfire. I could feel their eyes on me; mocking, judging. Picking me apart like I was nothing but a joke.

"Wait a second," someone sneered, "isn’t that Ms. Sinclair’s useless husband?"

"Yeah, I heard he lost both kidneys. Now he just leeches off her, waiting to die."

"If you ask me, a guy like that should just end it already instead of dragging other people down."

"Seriously, just look at him. Weak as hell, a total disgrace. And compared to Jordan? It’s embarrassing. He must’ve tricked Ms. Sinclair into marrying him or something. And now he’s out here, making a fool of himself."

More laughter. More whispers. And Yolanda just stood there, she didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend me. She didn’t say a damn thing.

Losing both kidneys left me looking weak and apparently, that made me an easy target. "I heard kidneys help filter waste," someone snickered. "Since he lost both, his stomach must be full of shit. No wonder he reeks."

Laughter rippled through the room. I stood there, silent, as they laughed at me like I wasn’t even a person.

Then Yolanda finally saw me. Her eyes widened for a second before she quickly composed herself and walked over, looking embarrassed.

"Callum, what are you doing here?" she asked, forcing a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea. Jordan just got back today and I wanted to welcome him properly."

Before I could say anything, Jordan slung an arm around her shoulders, grinning like he was enjoying the moment.

"Oh, Callum, it's you?" He laughed. "My bad, man. Yolanda went overboard with these crystal chandeliers, said they’d make me look even more handsome. Guess the glare messed with my eyes. Thought some random beggar wandered in."

More laughter. I ignored him and looked at Yolanda. "Do you know what day it is?"

She blinked, confused. I waited, still nothing. I let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. She had forgotten. Again.

For years, she brushed it off, saying old couples didn’t need birthdays. That just being together was enough.

Yet here she was, throwing a grand celebration for him, surrounding him with imported roses, draping him in designer gifts.

For me? Nothing. I must’ve looked ridiculous standing there.

Yolanda hesitated like she was about to say something, maybe explain, but Jordan suddenly groaned and clutched his stomach.

"Yolanda… my stomach hurts," he murmured, leaning into her. "I think my old wound isn’t fully healed."

Six years. He had been milking this same excuse for six years, but Yolanda panicked like it was the first time she’d heard it.

"What? You were fine just now! Maybe your shirt is too tight?" She fussed over him, adjusting his collar. "I told you, even if you wore a sack, you’d still be the most handsome man in the world, but you never listen."

Then she turned to me. "Callum, just sit down for a while, okay? Jordan isn’t feeling well. I need to take care of him."

And just like that, she was gone, helping him upstairs like I didn’t even exist. I stood there, stuck in a sea of roses and whispered laughter.

"Some people really think that just because they married Ms. Sinclair, they actually matter," someone sneered.

Another scoffed. "Please. Everyone knows Ms. Sinclair only ever loved Jordan. If Kyra hadn’t gotten there first, you think he would even be here?"

Mocking voices. Disgusted stares. I was just standing there, humiliated, while the woman who once swore to love me disappeared into an elevator with another man.

"Get lost already. No amount of roses can cover up the stench coming from your gut. Stop polluting the air. Honestly, what’s even the point of you being alive?"

Laughter followed, cruel and sharp, cutting through me like a blade. I said nothing.

My fingers curled around the divorce papers hidden in my pocket, crumpling the edges. My chest tightened, but I refused to let them see me break. Without a word, I turned and walked away, heading upstairs.

When I reached the suite, I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed. Something told me to turn around and leave. That I didn’t need to see whatever was happening inside.

But I looked anyway and I regretted it instantly.

Jordan was sprawled out on the sofa and Yolanda was practically draped over him, her skirt riding up as she clung to his neck. Her eyes were hazy, lips slightly parted, caught between hesitation and desire.

"Yolanda, is my skin still smooth?" Jordan murmured, his fingers trailing lazily over her arm. "Are there any scars?"

She squirmed, a weak attempt at resistance. "Jordan, we shouldn't... You're married now, I—"

"Shh..." He pulled her closer, tilting her chin up. "Yolanda, I remember everything you did for me. Even if I had to marry someone else, my heart still belongs to you." His voice dropped, smooth and coaxing. "I'm your rose, remember? Tonight, you can touch me as much as you want."

With that, he unbuttoned her dress, revealing a tattoo beneath her collarbone. He pressed his hand against it, then leaned in and kissed her.

Yolanda trembled. Whatever willpower she had left snapped in an instant and she kissed him back—hungry, desperate, as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life.

I had never seen this side of her before. The woman who always prided herself on composure, who once told me she hated recklessness, now throwing herself so completely at him.

For a second, I couldn’t move. Then something inside me cracked. I raised my phone, hit record and captured every second of it.

By the time I stopped, my hands were shaking. I couldn’t watch anymore. I stumbled out of the room, my legs weak beneath me.

Downstairs, I collapsed onto the curb outside the hotel, my head spinning. Laughter and music spilled out from inside, but none of it belonged to me.

I sat there, cold and empty, staring at nothing. Then, without warning—Splash.

A bucket of filth; rotten fish, shrimp, God knows what else, crashed over me, soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone.