Wife’s Wish, Husband’s Wake

The office stood silent at this late hour, with only the soft hum of computers and the occasional distant horn from the Manhattan streets below keeping me company. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but the investor presentation needed to be perfect. Ethan's future—our future—depended on it.

I massaged my temples, fighting the headache that had been building all day. Ten years of marriage, and still I worked in the shadows, the secret architect behind his success. The thought brought a familiar ache, different from the physical exhaustion weighing on my body.

"Just this last file," I murmured to myself, eyeing the cabinet that towered against the wall. The folder I needed sat on the top shelf, just out of reach. I grabbed the metal step stool, positioning it carefully before climbing up.

My fingers had just brushed against the folder when something inside me shifted. A sharp, tearing sensation erupted in my chest, as if someone had plunged a knife between my ribs and twisted. The pain was so sudden, so violent, that I couldn't even scream. My vision blurred, the edges darkening as my body tilted backward.

I was falling, but it felt like floating. Time slowed as my hand clutched at my chest, my body betraying me in a way it never had before. The impact with the floor barely registered compared to the supernova exploding inside my chest.

"Charlotte! Oh my God!"

The voice seemed to come from miles away. Melissa from accounting. Must have been working late too. Her face appeared above me, panic etched into every feature.

"Can't... breathe," I managed, each word sending fresh waves of agony through me.

More voices joined the chaos. Someone was on the phone, words like "ambulance" and "emergency" filtering through my fading consciousness. I wanted to tell them to call Ethan, but my lips wouldn't cooperate. My husband should know. He should be here.

The ride to the hospital passed in fragments—flashing lights, concerned faces, questions I couldn't answer. Mount Sinai, they said. The best care in Manhattan. I wanted to laugh. The best care wouldn't matter if Ethan wasn't there.

---

"Mrs. Mason, I'm Dr. Isabel Sharma." The woman's voice was gentle but direct, her dark eyes studying me with clinical precision. "The fall triggered what we call an aortic dissection. Your heart has sustained severe damage."

I lay in the hospital bed, monitors beeping steadily around me. The pain medication had dulled the agony to a persistent throb, but Dr. Sharma's words cut through the haze with terrifying clarity.

"How severe?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.

"Without a transplant, your heart will fail." She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle. "We need to list you immediately."

My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone on the bedside table. Ethan needed to know. He would drop everything, come running. He had to.

The phone rang three times before he answered.

"Charlotte, I'm in the middle of something," he said, his voice clipped. I could hear voices in the background, the clink of glasses. A celebration, perhaps. Without me. Always without me.

"Ethan, I'm in the hospital. Mount Sinai. The doctors say—"

"The hospital? Is this about that fall at the office? Johnson already called me." He sounded annoyed, distracted. "Look, I'm sure it's just a work injury. Take a few days off if you need to, but the presentation needs to be ready by Thursday."

"Ethan, please listen. It's my heart. They say I need a—"

"Charlotte, I really can't talk right now. We'll discuss this when I get home." The line went dead before I could respond.

Dr. Sharma watched me with a mixture of sympathy and concern. "Your husband?"

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "He's very busy."

She frowned slightly but didn't press. "We'll start the paperwork for the transplant list. In the meantime, we'll stabilize you as best we can."

As she left, I stared at the ceiling, wondering when exactly I had become so disposable to the man I'd given everything to.

---

It was past midnight when I finally returned to our penthouse. The doctors had wanted me to stay, but I insisted on going home. If these might be my last days, I refused to spend them in a sterile hospital room.

The elevator opened directly into our foyer, and I stepped out, still unsteady. The pain medication made everything seem slightly unreal, dreamlike.

"There you are." Ethan's voice came from the living room. He wasn't alone.

I moved slowly toward them, each step careful. Ethan stood by the window, Manhattan's glittering skyline behind him. Beside him was a woman I recognized from company events—tall, elegant, with the kind of delicate beauty that made men want to protect her.

"Charlotte, this is Olivia Hayes," Ethan said, his tone businesslike. "Given your... condition, I've asked her to step in as my official companion for public events."

Olivia smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I've heard so much about you."

I doubted that very much.

"This arrangement protects you from prying eyes," Ethan continued, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "The last thing we need is for competitors to know about your health issues. It could destabilize investor confidence."

I stared at him, this stranger wearing my husband's face. The pain in my chest had nothing to do with my damaged heart.

"I see," was all I could manage to say, as Olivia's perfectly manicured hand came to rest possessively on Ethan's arm.