1 The third day my son was missing was the day my rival’s daughter got her new heart. Bianca flaunted it, beaming at me, so sure her daughter was destined for a long and happy life. But all I could see was the memory of her eyes, a venomous glint as she once stared at my son’s chest. I had to know. I had to know who the donor was. I became a woman possessed. My husband, a man who valued his public image above all else, was furious. He thought my frantic questions in the hospital hallway were a public disgrace, hissing that I was a lunatic. But I saw it. Through a crack in the operating room door, I saw the body of the child on the table. And on that small body, I saw the birthmark that belonged only to my son. “I need to see the body! That child is my son!” My hair was a wild mess, my voice a desperate, crazed shout in the sterile hospital corridor. A nurse blocked my path, her tone sharp with impatience. “I’ve already told you, the deceased is a boy named Aiden King. He is not your son.” Her hand was firm on my arm. “And without the family’s consent, you have no right to view the remains. Claire, please, stop making a scene and wasting our time.” Other nurses glared at me, their faces a mixture of anger and pity. “I don’t believe you. That has to be my Leo.” My eyes were locked on the operating room door, every muscle in my body coiled to burst through it. But a large hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back so hard I slammed against the wall. Dr. Hugo Grant, my husband, stared down at me with pure disgust. “Claire,” he seethed, “what’s the difference between you and a lunatic right now? Leo has only been missing for three days. Stop trying to curse him to death!” “And in those three days, have you, his father, even once asked for an update on his case?” I shot back, my eyes burning. A flicker of annoyance crossed his perfect face. “I’m not a detective. What good would asking do? Are my questions going to bring him back?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a contemptuous whisper. “This is just another one of your pathetic attempts to get my attention, isn’t it? Fine. You’ve succeeded. I’ll take tomorrow off to be with you.” One of his colleagues chimed in with a sycophantic murmur, “But Dr. Grant, you have a major surgery scheduled for tomorrow! What terrible luck, being married to a woman with no sense of propriety.” The small crowd of doctors and nurses nodded in agreement, their whispers like tiny daggers. My lips twisted into a sorrowful smile. My heart felt like a dead weight in my chest. We were in love once, Hugo and I. He pursued me our senior year of college. We married right after graduation. He told me his work was demanding, that he needed me to manage our home. So I gave up my career and dedicated myself to him. For six years, he climbed the ladder, becoming the youngest Chief of Surgery in the hospital’s history. And then, after a business trip, he came back with them. His childhood sweetheart, Bianca, and her daughter. Bianca’s daughter had a congenital heart defect. I’ll never forget the day she’d “joked” that since my Leo was so frail anyway, why not just donate his heart to her little girl? The look in her eyes that day wasn't a joke. It was a promise. “Hugo, I’m begging you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please, just let me see the body. He’s my son.” I knew Hugo’s greatest weakness was his reputation. So I did the one thing I knew would horrify him. I fell to my knees and wept. His face paled. “Fine,” he snapped. “One look.” “Absolutely not!” a frail voice cried out. Bianca was there, supporting a weeping old man. “My dear girl,” the man sobbed, looking at me. “My grandson… his face was the thing he was most proud of. The accident… it ruined him. We don’t want anyone to see him looking so… so broken in death.” Hugo’s expression turned to ice. “This is the donor’s grandfather, Claire. That should be proof enough that the boy inside is not our son. This is all in your head.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood. In my head? No. I refused to believe it. I trusted the invisible thread that connected me to my son. I knew he was in that room. Bianca’s face was a mask of tragic tears. “Claire, I know you’re upset. Hugo is my oldest friend, and I know it’s uncomfortable for you that he’s the one performing my daughter’s surgery. I can handle you taking it out on me, I always have.” Her voice rose, filled with manufactured desperation. “But this is a life! A real, living child! The window for a heart transplant is four hours, the sooner the better! You’ve already delayed this for so long! Please, don’t hold this up any longer. Let Hugo do the surgery. I’ll get on my knees and beg you.” And with that, she dropped to the floor before me. The whispers from the staff grew louder, their scorn for me thickening the air. A shrew. A harpy. No wonder Dr. Grant preferred the gentle, understanding Bianca. A year ago, those words would have shattered me. Now, they were meaningless. I’d stopped loving Hugo the day he brought Bianca into our lives. I only stayed for our son. “Let me see the body,” I repeated, my voice flat. “Have you lost your mind? I never knew you could be so petty, so cold-blooded!” Hugo’s patience finally snapped. “When I met you, you were the kindest person I knew. When did you become this… this monster? I’ve told you a thousand times, there is nothing between Bianca and me! She saved my life when we were kids, and I am repaying a debt. She is ten times the woman you are! If I truly loved her, do you think you would have had any place in my life these past few years?” His anger escalated into a full-blown rage. With a guttural roar, he swung, his open palm cracking against my cheek with all his strength. I crumpled to the floor, my face exploding with pain. He didn’t even glance at me. He rushed to Bianca, pulling her tenderly to her feet. “She’s been a housewife for too long,” he murmured to her. “It’s made her paranoid.” Then he looked up and saw my swollen face, the trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth. He froze. A flicker of regret crossed his eyes—not for hitting me, but for being caught. For doing it in public. His pristine image was tarnished. Almost automatically, his expression shifted to one of guilt. He reached for me. “I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean to… I was just so angry. Let’s get you some ice for that.” I stared at him with dead eyes. As he drew near, I lunged, grabbing his right hand and pressing the tip of a fruit knife I’d grabbed from a nearby gift basket against his wrist. “You’re going to sign the divorce papers,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But first, you’re going to take me to see that body. If you don’t, I’ll ruin that right hand of yours, and you’ll never be a surgeon again.” My face was a mask of desperate ferocity. Today, no one was going to stop me. “Divorce? You want a divorce? Over this?” He looked genuinely stunned. Then he saw the absolute emptiness in my eyes and finally seemed to realize that any love I once had for him was long, long gone. I saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes and almost laughed. He asked when I had become a monster? Perhaps it was during the years of silent, single-handed parenting. Or maybe it was the slow erosion of my soul from his daily neglect and the endless, thankless chores. I hadn't become a monster. I'd become a ghost. A madwoman. I remembered when we were first married. He was busy, but he insisted on making me oatmeal every morning, saying my stomach was weak and needed care. He did it for six months, until I was better. The first year of our marriage, I was in a car accident. He cried at my bedside, wishing it was his leg that was broken, not mine. "I swore in our vows to be with you until we were old and gray," he'd said. "I will never abandon you." I thought I had married for love. When did it all change? It wasn't until I found his journal that I understood. I was never his first choice. He loved someone else. When I was about to give birth, I saw him carefully picking out baby supplies online. My heart swelled with hope, thinking he was finally embracing fatherhood. Then I saw the shipping address. He sent everything to Bianca. From the very beginning, he was never on our side. Letting him go was the most natural thing in the world. “Dr. Grant, it’s been nearly three hours,” a nurse interrupted, her voice urgent. “If we don’t start the procedure now, the heart’s viability will drop significantly. Even if the surgery is a success, the patient’s recovery will be compromised.” Bianca fell to her knees again, slamming her forehead against the linoleum floor until it was bruised and bloody. “Claire, I’m begging you! Please, let Hugo do the surgery first! My daughter is my life, I can’t lose her! You’re a mother, too. How can you not understand how I feel?” Her pathetic display won the sympathy of the onlookers. The head nurse’s face hardened. “Claire, if you continue this, we will call security!” Even Hugo, still under the threat of my knife, frowned. “Claire, can we please discuss this after the surgery? I know I’ve neglected you. I’ll do better. I promise I’ll spend more time with you.” “No need to call security,” I said, my voice ringing with cold clarity. I looked straight at Bianca, my gaze boring into her as if to expose the darkness in her soul. “I’ve already called the police.” “It only takes a moment to look at a body,” I announced to the room. “So who, exactly, is the one wasting time here? You’re doing everything in your power to stop me from seeing those remains. What unspeakable secret are you trying to hide?” My words seemed to finally penetrate the fog of prejudice. The nurses and doctors exchanged uncertain glances. It was true. Why would Bianca and the old man protest so violently against something that would take only a minute, especially if a child's life was on the line? Panic flickered in Bianca's eyes. Just then, two police officers arrived. “Who called in a suspected homicide?” At the word “homicide,” the atmosphere in the hallway shifted. “I did,” I said, turning to the officers. “I believe the child in that operating room is my son, who has been missing for three days. I request a DNA test.” “Officers, that’s my grandson in there!” the old man cried pitifully. A quick check of their system confirmed that the man did, in fact, have a grandson. “Officers, please, you have to help me,” Bianca wept. “Because of her, my daughter’s life-saving surgery can’t begin.” “Ma’am,” one of the officers said sternly to me, “that’s enough. Let the doctor go so he can do his job.” Seizing the opportunity, Hugo wrenched his arm free. He looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “Claire, I never imagined you were this far gone. Bianca has done nothing to you, yet you’re willing to let her daughter die. I must have been blind to ever fall for you.” A lunatic? Yes. I smiled a thin, sharp smile. I had been a lunatic since the moment I knew my son was gone. I turned the fruit knife around and pressed it against my own throat. “I am going to see that body,” I told the officers. “Or I will die right here, right now.” I pushed the blade harder. A thin line of blood welled up, tracing a path down my pale skin. Seeing that I was serious, the police finally relented and escorted me into the operating room. 2 I finally stepped inside. There, on the surgical table, was a small, cold body. My heart seized with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. It was him. It was my son. With a trembling hand, I lifted the white sheet. A small, unfamiliar face, half of it destroyed, stared up at me. It wasn't Leo's face. Hugo let out a sigh of relief. He turned on me, his voice glacial. “There. You’ve seen him. Are you satisfied? It’s not our son. Now get out so I can do my job!” I shoved his hand away and carefully pulled back the surgical gown. There, on the pale skin of his abdomen, was the distinct, puckered mark of a burn. And next to it, a small, heart-shaped birthmark. A guttural sob ripped from my throat. I looked at Hugo, my voice a broken rasp. “Look at this scar. Look at this birthmark. Now tell me again that this is not our son.” Hugo’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The color drained from his face as his trembling fingers traced the outline of the burn. He knew that scar. He had been the one to accidentally cause it while taking care of Leo. The body on the table was his son. And moments ago, he had personally harvested his heart.
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