He Took My Liver, Now He Wants Me Back

I signed the discharge-against-medical-advice paperwork alone.

I paid the hospital bill with my own bank card.

I pressed one hand against my right side. The incision beneath the gauze was still seeping blood. Every step felt like the freshly sutured muscle was being torn open again.

The nurse at St. John's Private Medical Center chased me to the elevator, urging me to stay at least another forty-eight hours for observation. I didn't look back. I just handed her the risk-acknowledgment form I'd already signed.

When the elevator doors opened, Adrian's executive assistant, Matthew Reed, hurried over, carrying a bouquet of white roses and an expensive get-well basket.

"Mrs. Bennett, these are from Mr. Grant."

He held the basket out to me, his tone careful yet carrying the practiced confidence of a man used to handling problems on his boss's behalf.

"Miss Moore has developed acute rejection after the transplant, so Mr. Grant can't leave her side right now. It's pouring outside. He said once the weather clears up, he'll come get you himself and take you back to the penthouse. The church has already been contacted as well. The ceremony can be rescheduled to next month."

I looked at the basket, its contents arranged with meticulous care: protein powder, non-alcoholic champagne, a sympathy card stamped with the firm's logo. It was almost laughable.

Adrian and I had registered our marriage at city hall six months ago. The church wedding, postponed three times already, was the public commitment he had promised me.

Now, I had just had most of my liver cut out to save the woman he used to love, and he still expected me to wait. Wait for the rain to stop. Wait for him to be free. Wait for Celia to be safe. Only then would it be my turn.

I took the basket and tossed it straight into the trash can beside the elevator.

Matthew's expression shifted. "Ma'am, what are you doing?"

I opened my handbag and pulled out the penthouse key card, the authorized-user credit card Adrian had given me, the church ceremony confirmation, and the diagnostic report stamped with "Risk of Postoperative Liver Failure." I shoved them all into his arms.

"Tell Adrian the wedding is off. The divorce petition has been filed with my attorney, and I won't be going back to his apartment."

Matthew reached out to stop me. "You're too emotional right now. Mr. Grant hates it when people use divorce as a threat. Go back to your room, and talk to him when he gets here."

I stepped aside, dodging his hand.

"This isn't a threat. It's a notice."

Outside the hospital's revolving doors, New York was being hammered by the worst rainstorm since fall began.

Cold wind and rain lashed my face. I had no umbrella, no car, nothing but a wool coat too thin to block the wind.

The rain soaked through my clothes within seconds, running down my side and into the wound. The pain was blinding. Every step felt like walking on the edge of a blade.

But I could only keep moving forward.

Because Adrian said, "She's dying, I can't just stand by and do nothing." For those words alone, I had put myself on that operating table.

To keep him from being put on the spot, I had covered up all his emotional manipulation during the donor evaluation.

Now I finally understood: if someone always needs you to prove your love through pain, they never loved you at all.

The phone in my pocket wouldn't stop vibrating.

I made it to the taxi stand outside the hospital and gripped the wet, cold metal railing as I answered the call.

"Elena."

Adrian's voice was low, exhausted, still carrying that gentle tone he used when he was trying to soothe me.

"Don't throw a tantrum right now. Matthew said you threw everything away. You just had surgery. You should listen to the doctors."

I clutched my abdomen, the pain dragging me slowly to my knees in the rain.

He didn't hear me gasping. He went on, "I've already booked that trip to Provence you always wanted. Once Celia stabilizes, we'll stay there together for a whole month."

"This is the last time. Her brother, Daniel Moore, entrusted her to me on his deathbed. I can't abandon her when she's in this much danger. You've always been kind, always understanding. Don't force me to choose right now, okay?"

Every word was gentle, and every one of them cut deeper than a scalpel.

Whenever Adrian had to choose, his answer was always to sacrifice me.

The postoperative medication hit me with a wave of nausea just as the bleeding started up again. A metallic tang rose in my throat, and I couldn't get out a single coherent word.

The phone slipped from my hand and dropped into a puddle.

A black sedan screeched to a halt in front of me.

The rear door swung open, and Leon Hart stepped out into the downpour, reaching me in a few strides.

When he saw the blood spreading across my coat, his composure shattered.

"Elena?"

He stripped off his overcoat, wrapped it around me, and lifted me into his arms. His movements were steady, but he was careful not to touch my right side.

"Get to Hudson Medical Center. Alert the chief of surgery and the transfusion team."

The driver turned the car around immediately.

I leaned back in the seat, breathing in shallow gasps, my fingers clenched around Leon's sleeve.

Leon was Adrian's fiercest rival in the architecture industry, and the only person who had ever seen my real design work.

I looked up at him, tears and rain falling together into my hair.

"Help me get out of New York."

My voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don't want the wedding anymore. I don't want Adrian anymore."

Leon held my hand. His palm was warm and steady.

"Okay."

He didn't ask if I'd regret it. He didn't tell me to give anyone another chance.

"I'll get you out."

At the same time, in the intensive care ward at St. John's Medical Center, Adrian listened to the dead line and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Celia leaned against the headboard, pale-faced. "Adrian, is Elena upset? It's raining so hard out there. You should go find her. I have the nurses here. I'll be fine."

Adrian tucked the blanket around her.

"You just had a transplant. Don't worry about this."

"But she hung up on you."

"She's just in too much pain. Her temper got the better of her." Adrian handed Celia a cup of warm water, his tone still assured. "Give her a couple of days to cool down. She won't actually leave me."

He didn't look at the darkened phone screen again.

He had no idea that was the last time he would ever hear me breathe.