The Surgeon’s Revenge Deal

Gwen’s POV.

  “Three months,” Dr. Evans' firm voice filled my ears, “without intervention, you have at most, three months left to live, Mrs. Carvers.”

  Those words landed like a blow, knocking the air right out of my lungs as my eyes dropped to my hands clenched tightly on my thighs. It didn’t matter how hard I was fighting back the tears, it was already rapidly pooling at the bottom of my eyes and blurring my vision of my wedding ring.

  “I’m sorry but there is very little we can do, the pulmonary hypertension has progressed too far, even with the surgery, the chances of… well, of making it through are very slim given how much your heart is already struggling.”

  “I have to be honest with you, we’re looking at a five percent survival rate.”

  A strange high-pitched noise filled my ears and the doctor’s voice gradually began to fade into the background. Everything in the room seemed to disappear, leaving just me and the terrifying darkness in my mind.

  “This is a major surgery and you need to think about it,” he continued, his voice becoming softer, “don’t decide now. Go home. Talk to your husband, you’ll need a strong support system for something like this.”

  I nodded mechanically, my throat too tight for the words to pass through.

  It wasn’t until I slammed the door of my car shut before the weight of his words hit me. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, loud sobs shook my body violently as the tears I had been fighting so hard to hold back began to pour down my face.

  My throat burned, my eyes stung and I was practically gasping for air at that point.

  It’s been a month since I found out about the illness yet no one, not even my husband, Raymond, was aware of it.

  Raymond and I have been married for four years. We’d known each other our whole lives since our parents were both business partners and friends. I’d followed him around since we were kids, a pigtailed girl who grew into a woman hopelessly in love with him.

  After college, I made my parents propose the wedding arrangements and Raymond married me simply because his parents wanted him to. I thought, maybe, just maybe he would finally see me after the wedding.

  Maybe if I was a good wife and showed him enough love, he would love me in return.

  But as the years flew by, the harsh reality that he might never really accept me as his wife began to grow inside of me. Raymond was never mean, never raised his voice at me or treated me badly. He was just… emotionally absent.

  We lived in a beautiful penthouse apartment but lived like two satellites orbiting the sun and never touching. He spoke to me only when necessary and nothing more,

  “Dinner at eight.”

  “Don’t wait up.”

  “Charity gala is on Friday.”

  I’d clung to the hope that one day, something would change but with each passing day, the silence between us grew heavier and the distance became wider. Some days, we barely even spoke a word to each other.

  And now, I have three months left to live.

  With quivering lips, I turned on the ignition and drove home on autopilot, totally unaware of my surroundings.

  Raymond was all I had left, my parents passed away in a plane crash a year ago… so I made up my mind that I was going to tell him about the illness and the surgery tonight during dinner.

  I made his favorite dish and at exactly 7pm, the door opened and he walked past me with his briefcase in hand,

  “I’m home.” He murmured like he always did.

  “Hi,” I whispered but he was already heading upstairs to the bedroom.

  By the time he returned downstairs to the dinner table, his hair was damp from the shower and he had changed into casual clothes,

  “Raymond,” I began, my voice trembling as I watched him eat in that same robotic manner that he always did, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He looked up from his plate an unexpected move that caught me off guard, our eyes locked and for a fleeting second those perfect almond eyes of his that always filled me with hope for our marriage, reminded me of the boy I’d fallen in love with on the playground when I was six.

  The memories of his laughter filled my mind, a sound I hadn’t heard in years.

  My chest tightened as I stared at him, but the man before me was no longer that boy. I clenched my fists tightly under the table as I struggled with the pain in my lungs.

  I parted my trembling lips to speak over the sound of my heart hammering wildly against my ribs,

  “I’m—“

  “Actually, there’s something I need to discuss with you,” he dropped his cutlery and leaned back against his seat, “I’ve decided to try surrogacy.”

  Time seemed to stop the moment that word slipped past his lips. It felt like the air had suddenly been sucked from the room and for a terrifying second, my weak lungs refused to work.

  A tremor shot through my entire body and I actually thought I was going to collapse. Instead, I grabbed fistfuls of my dress and tried to steady my breath.

  “I had my assistant draw up a list of selected candidates, my lawyer is drawing up the contract as we speak and everything should be ready by tomorrow,” he continued, his tone smooth like this was just a regular conversation.

  How could he make a decision like that without me? Drawing up the contract already? Did my opinion even matter?

  Tears welled up in my eyes, stinging the corners and burning my throat so bad that I could barely stay still. His jaw tightened with impatience when he noticed it,

  “Don’t.” He warned, “don’t be dramatic about this Gwen, it’s a practical solution to a persistent problem.” He added as if that was supposed to comfort me.

  A persistent problem. Was that what I was to him?

  “I have a candidate in mind already and…”

  I could no longer hear him, that same voice I always wanted to hear had fallen to a simple noise in the background as the wild voices in my head screamed louder.

  This will change everything.

  I loved him. I loved Raymond my entire life and over the years I had tried everything, six failed IVF’s and so much more desperate, failed attempts to have a child but because I loved him to a fault, I couldn’t bear to deny him of what he had always dreamed of any longer.

  “But I…” I choked out, begging and forcing myself to spit out the words, to tell him all I had left was three months and a surgery that I probably wouldn’t survive.

  “But nothing,” he snapped, his voice colder than I remember as he glared at me, “this isn’t a discussion Gwen, everything has already been arranged. I expect you to be reasonable and sign the damn papers tomorrow.”

  At that exact moment, I felt it, that tiny flicker of hope, that thin thread that had been holding me together, that kept me hoping our marriage would one day become everything I had ever imagined and more, suddenly snapped.

  I felt it die inside of me as the tears welled up in my eyes.

  A strange, cold calm settled over me and I forcefully held back the tears that were threatening to spill any second,

  “I’ll… think about it,” I managed to whisper, surprised the words even made it out.

  He simply scoffed out loud and continued eating like the conversation hadn’t happened.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep.

  “…five percent.” “….three months.”

  Those words haunted me. I was seated at the sleek desk in the sitting room, the soft glow from my laptop illuminating my face as my slender fingers flew over the keyboard. I emailed my lawyer, requesting the documents I’d secretly inquired about months ago during a particularly lonely night.

  I had never imagined I’d have the courage to use them.

  Afterwards, I laid wide awake on the king sized bed we shared, my eyes glued to his back and the insanely large amount of space he had placed between us, I couldn’t hold it back any longer, pressing my face against the pillow, I let the tears flow.

  The pillow muffled the sound and it wasn’t until the sun began to peek its head across the horizon before the tears stopped.

  The next morning, as soon as he left for work, I printed out the papers my lawyer had sent, the words, “Divorce Papers” written boldly on top of it.

  With trembling hands, I signed on the line with my name and left it on the polished surface of his desk, right next to the heavy crystal award he’d won last year— “Businessman Of The Year.”

  I packed a single suitcase with the things that were truly mine. I left the diamonds he had gifted me and the designer clothes he paid for.

  Leaving my keys behind on the dining table, I walked out of the penthouse and as soon as I was seated in the car I had rented, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Dr. Evans, my tears dropping silently on the screen,

  “Please schedule the surgery. I have nothing left to lose.”