Ayden's voice on the phone was cold and dismissive, each word digging into me like a shard of glass. "Are you done? Isn't it just childhood diabetes? He can take medication—why do you need a kidney transplant? Can you stop making a scene?" His tone was sharp, indifferent, as though our son's life wasn't hanging by a thread. My chest tightened at the coldness in his words, at how easily he brushed off the gravity of the situation.

"Every time something happens with Iris, you freak out like this. It's been six years—if something My voice trembled, still pleading, "Ayden, it's not just—"

But he cut me off, his voice tinged with frustration. "Every time something happens with Iris, you freak out like this. It's been six years—if something were going on between us, wouldn't you have noticed by now? So, the car accident wasn't enough and now you've moved on to needing a kidney transplant?" His words were dripping with sarcasm, as if my desperation was some sort of game to him.

I gripped the phone tighter, knuckles white, unable to stop the tears streaming down my face. His dismissal of everything—our son, our marriage—pierced my heart like a knife.

"I'm not even at the hospital today," he continued, irritation clear in his tone. "So what are you trying to do by going to my workplace? I'm warning you—stop embarrassing me! Go take care of our son right now, or don't blame me if I stop his medication next time!" His threat hung in the air, heavy and cruel. My stomach churned, a hollow ache spreading through my chest.

And then, as if flipping a switch, his tone immediately softened, all his venom vanishing as he spoke to Iris. "Don't worry," he whispered to her with a tenderness that made my heart clench. "The surgery won't hurt. I'll make your favorite porridge and once you're done, you can have it. I'll be waiting outside for you, okay? Be good." His voice, so soft and soothing, was filled with a warmth I hadn't heard in years.

I couldn't hold back the sobs any longer. My breath came in ragged gasps as my tears blurred the cold, clinical walls of the hospital waiting room. The betrayal, the agony, all of it overwhelmed me. Before I could say another word, before I could beg him to reconsider, the lights outside the operating room flickered and went dark.

The doctor emerged, his face a mask of sorrow. His steps were slow and deliberate, as if each one carried the weight of the news he had to deliver. When he shook his head in regret, it felt like my entire world shattered in that single gesture.

The phone slipped from my trembling hand, crashing to the floor with a hollow thud, the sound barely registering in the haze of my grief. My legs buckled and I collapsed, the sterile hospital floor cold against my skin. I couldn't process the words, the reality of what was happening. The disciplinary committee staff gathered around, murmuring softly, but their voices were muffled, distant. It was as if I had been plunged underwater, my mind unable to process the world around me.

In my unconsciousness, memories from my past life flooded back, bitter and vivid. Back then, after the car accident, I had been just as desperate. I had called Ayden, my voice frantic, pleading for help. But then, he had come. He had rushed to the hospital, his face pale with worry, his arms wrapping around me in a protective embrace as we waited for news. He had been my rock, my support. When the doctor finally told us that our son had survived the kidney transplant, we had both cried tears of relief.

But by the time Ayden returned to Iris, she had already died—alone in her home, her body cold and lifeless. His grief had been silent but deep. He had handled her funeral with quiet reverence and when he came back to me, there was guilt in his eyes.

"I don't blame you," he had said, his voice steady but filled with sadness. "It was fate. You and our son are the most important things in my life now." He had looked at me with such sincerity that, for a moment, I believed him.

After our son was discharged, Ayden had suggested a birthday party to celebrate his recovery—a gesture I hadn't expected. I had assumed his heart was finally turning back toward our family. Eagerly, I had booked a hotel, baked a cake myself, filled with hope that maybe, just maybe, our lives could return to normal.

But that night, he had struck me from behind, knocking me out cold. When I awoke, bound and helpless, I found myself at Iris's grave.

My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled against the ropes, but I was too tightly bound. I could barely move.

And then I saw him. Ayden stood over our son's limp body, a scalpel in his hand, blood staining his clothes. My son's heart—his precious heart—was torn from his chest, his organs methodically removed one by one. The kidney meant for Iris lay discarded, crushed into a bloody mess on the ground.

Ayden's face was contorted with madness, his eyes filled with a hatred so deep it twisted his once-handsome features into something monstrous. There was no trace of the man I had loved for years. He was gone, replaced by someone I no longer recognized.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned to me, a crazed smile twisting his lips. "Isn't it just a chronic illness? It's not fatal, so why did he have to take Iris's life-saving kidney?" His voice was eerily calm, as if he were explaining something mundane. "He's still young—he would've had plenty of chances to be saved. But now… now it's all ruined."

I wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but my voice failed me. The horror of the scene before me paralyzed me.

"Do you know how much pain Iris was in when she died?" Ayden's voice grew bitter, his hands trembling as he held the bloodied scalpel. "She called me dozens of times and I didn't answer. Her last voice messages… she was still crying, still saying she didn't blame me. Even in her final moments, she loved me."

Tears welled in his eyes, but they were tears of rage, not grief. "But I blame myself. I hate myself for letting you and that bastard ruin everything!" His voice rose into a shrill, hysterical laugh.

Without warning, he drove the scalpel into my throat, the sharp blade tearing through flesh. I gasped, choking on blood, the taste of iron filling my mouth. The pain was searing and darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

As my life slipped away, I saw Ayden turn the scalpel on himself. He plunged it into his own chest, the blade sinking deep into his heart.

The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was his blood splattering across Iris's gravestone, mingling with mine. And in that final moment, I realized just how foolish I had been.

When I opened my eyes again, the sterile scent of disinfectant filled the room, reminding me where I was—back in a hospital. I bolted upright, my body aching from the sudden movement. Ignoring the nurse who rushed to my side, pleading for me to calm down, I ripped the IV out of my arm. I couldn't stay here. I didn't have time. My son was gone and there was no one else to collect his body.

I stumbled out of the room, feeling dizzy, but I pushed through the wave of nausea. As I made my way through the hospital hallways, I noticed something different. The building was swarming with police officers, their radios crackling with static as they moved with urgency. Tension hung in the air, thick and oppressive. I passed by the hospital director's office, the door slightly ajar, where I heard muffled sobs. Molly's voice—pleading, broken—drifted out. She was begging for forgiveness, for some sort of reprieve.

I kept walking, my footsteps heavy. Outside, a crowd of reporters clustered near the entrance, their cameras flashing like vultures circling a carcass. They pointed their lenses toward the chaos inside, hoping for a glimpse of scandal. Their presence made me feel sick, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. I headed straight to the reception, finalizing my discharge with a cold efficiency. Each step felt mechanical, like I was sleepwalking through a nightmare.

An hour later, I stood before the crematorium. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh. I watched in silence, helpless, as the furnace roared to life, consuming the small body of my son. The flames flickered, cruel and unforgiving and when they finally died down, all that was left was a small urn—so small. I clutched it to my chest, the smooth ceramic cool against my skin. This was all I had left of him.

I returned home to an unbearable silence. The house felt hollow, as if the very life had been sucked out of it. I couldn't bear the sight of his toys scattered around, his clothes still hanging in the closet. My hands trembled as I packed away his things, but when I came across his favorite Superman figurine, something inside me snapped. I collapsed onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Hot tears streamed down my face and sobs wracked my body. The grief I had been holding in, trying so desperately to suppress, exploded all at once. The pain was unbearable, crushing my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

The shrill ring of my phone broke through my sobs and with shaking hands, I answered. It was the hospital's disciplinary committee, promising a satisfactory resolution, but their words were hollow. Nothing could bring my son back. Numbly, I hung up and wiped my tears, my resolve hardening. I contacted a lawyer to prepare the divorce papers. I was done—done with Ayden, with this farce of a marriage. I needed to sever every last tie.

Overnight, the medical accident became headline news. It spread like wildfire, igniting outrage online. Molly, the ER director and even the hospital's director scrambled to issue public apologies. Their faces plastered the news, each video more insincere than the last. But Ayden—the real culprit—was conspicuously absent. There was no apology, no statement from him.

And then, I saw it. Iris's social media post. It was a photo, taken from a hospital room. In the background, I recognized the setting—another private hospital, one much more exclusive. The porridge on the table in front of her had been eaten clean, down to the bottom of the bowl. Ayden had made his choice. He had abandoned everything to be with her, to care for her.

I stared at the photo, my mind numb. I didn't even have the energy to laugh at the irony of it all. Instead, I took a screenshot of her post and uploaded it beneath the hospital's trending comments, signing my real name. Let the world see the truth. Then, I turned off my phone, cradling my son's ashes in my arms and left for the funeral.

At the service, I moved like a ghost, my actions mechanical and devoid of emotion. Friends and family offered their condolences, but their words were absurd, empty. I barely registered them. All I could focus on was the small urn in my hands, the only physical reminder of my son.

When it was time for the burial, the doors to the funeral hall burst open. The sound echoed through the room and everyone turned in shock as Ayden stormed in, Iris trailing behind him. His face was twisted with fury, his eyes wild as he roared, "What kind of stunt are you pulling this time? Who gave you permission to hold a funeral?" His voice reverberated in the silence, thick with accusation. "What's with that screenshot you posted online? Why is the hospital's disciplinary committee contacting me? What did you do yesterday?"

I stood there, holding my son's ashes, feeling the cold fury rise inside me. His words were nothing but noise. His betrayal had left me numb to his anger. He had chosen Iris over us, over everything and yet here he was, demanding explanations as if I owed him something.

"I've been busy saving lives!" Ayden's voice cracked with frustration. "What did I ever do to you? Iris just had surgery and even she found the strength to defend me, but you—my wife—you keep stirring up trouble for no reason! If you don't come with me to clear this up right now, we're getting a divorce!"

His words didn't sting the way they once would have. Instead, a cold smile curled at the corner of my lips. "Stunt?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with venom. "Ayden, even if I died, would you still think I'm putting on a show? Do you honestly think I'm playing along with this farce for you? Who do you think you are?"

For the first time in six years, I let him see the coldness in my eyes, the bitterness that had festered inside me. He recoiled, startled by the venom in my voice. His face twisted in rage and he let go of Iris, storming toward me with fists clenched. He grabbed my mourning clothes, yanking me toward him, ready to drag me out of the hall. But I shoved him off, clutching the urn tighter, my knuckles turning white with the force of my grip.

Iris, pale and fragile, stepped forward, pressing a hand against the fresh surgical wound in her side. Her voice was soft, pleading. "I know you're upset with me, but it's because of my health. I never meant to destroy your relationship. Be mad at me if you must, but don't ruin Ayden's career!"

Before I could even process her words, something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I swung my hand, slapping her hard across the face. The impact echoed through the hall and she stumbled backward, her frail body tumbling down the steps. The fresh incision from her transplant tore open and blood quickly soaked through her hospital gown, darkening the fabric.

Everything seemed to slow down in that moment. I barely had time to react before Ayden, blinded by rage, lunged at me. His foot collided with my stomach and I flew backward, the force sending me crashing into the table where my son's portrait was displayed. The glass frame shattered on impact, shards cutting into my skin. The urn slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a sickening crack. My son's ashes scattered across the ground, a cloud of gray dust swirling in the air.

A scream ripped from my throat, raw and filled with anguish. I couldn't hold it back any longer. "Ayden, you're nothing but a beast!" My voice broke as I fumbled inside my coat, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper—the death certificate. I threw it in his face, the final, damning proof of his monstrous cruelty. "Get out of here!"