How Does Heartman: A Memoir End?

For seven years in a row, the Moon Goddess chose me to serve as the Saintess of the Silver Moon Pack. And every year, my mate-to-be, Alpha Kael Ashborne, handed the title to my adopted sister, Rosalie. "Rosalie is an Omega. She needs the position if she is ever going to earn the pack's respect." "I promise, Elara. Next year, the title will be yours." My mother baked Rosalie a cake to celebrate and dressed her in a one-of-a-kind gown sewn with moonstones. My father watched me as though he expected trouble, then let out a weary sigh. "Elara, could you try being generous for once and stop making a scene?" A bitter smile tugged at my lips. They had no idea why I had fought so hard for the Saintess title for seven years. I had Wolf Soul Decay Syndrome, and only the Silver Spring water reserved for the Saintess could save me. And now, I had only one month left to live. I no longer cried or argued. I simply nodded and agreed to everything they asked. They thought I had finally grown up. They thought I had learned to put Rosalie first. What they did not know was that I would soon be gone for good.

Looking to get over a betrayal and layoff, Everest Prue Camara goes to the small town of Lucerne-Alpane County to find recluse, and hopefully, discover a new passion. When fate puts her up as a neighbour with a single father, Everest is determined to not fall for the handsome rancher. Especially not when his six-year-old had wormed her way up her heart already. Mentor Gayle Calloway Jr. had always thought he was doing okay. His ranch was turning out very well over the years, Lucerne-Alpane was paradise to him and his daughter was fine, so what else could he need? The arrival of a new neighbour up the road puts the rancher's whole belief into question when he starts having feelings for her, to his annoyance. Everest has to make the choice of succumbing to her needs and risk toying with his heart, or steering clear till her recluse was over. Mentor finds it equally hard giving in to his own passion, especially having sworn off women. Will both of them relent and find solace in each other? Especially when at play is The Rancher's Heart?

When the nurse pulled the IV needle out of the back of my hand, her gaze was filled with pity. “Mr. Young, the heart meant for your transplant was transferred at the last minute. It was sent to the VIP ward on the seventh floor. It’s a shame, but all your pre-operation prep has gone to waste.” Marcus Stewart was warded on the seventh floor. He was the frail young man my sister brought home. Ten minutes ago, Marcus suddenly had terrible chest pain. My usually strong mother burst into tears. My stoic father slammed the table in front of every expert in the hospital, then decided to give Marcus the heart I had been waiting three years for. It was supposed to save my life. I hurried to the end of the corridor, but the green operating light had already come on. Clutching the twisting pain in my chest, I leaned against the ice-cold wall and slid to the floor. There was no need to wait anymore. My heart failure was terminal. The doctor said I would not last the next few days. The mechanical voice sounded in my head. [Master, your vital signs are rapidly deteriorating. If you terminate this body and leave this world now, you still have a chance at a new life. Would you like to proceed?] I looked at the faint grey hue of death tinging my fingertips. “...Yes.”

Grandma lay bedridden, her dementia taking hold as she repeated Scarlett Hayes's name over and over. Tears streamed down my face as I dialed my wife's number. When she picked up, Scarlett sounded irritated. She said she was working late tonight and would call me back when she was free. I could clearly hear the sound of a man's laughter in the background. The moment I hung up, Grandma gasped sharply. She called out my wife's name. It was her last breath. While I sat drowning in grief, Scarlett's male best friend Chase Morrison posted a video update, geotagged at a couples' hotel. In the video, their fingers were laced together. The woman's arm bore a distinctive black mole I recognized instantly. The caption read: "When two hearts become one, why care what anyone else thinks?" In that moment, my heart turned to ash. I gritted my teeth and left a comment. "Let's file for divorce tomorrow. Then you two can be together openly and legally. You'll even save on the hotel fees. Win-win, right?"

Before my death, I repeatedly remind my son, Clark Sinclair, what to do after I pass away. I stress that my heart must be donated to my husband, Craig Sinclair. He has suffered from dilated cardiomyopathy for 30 years. This is the last thing I can do for him. Clark shakes me off impatiently and snaps, "Enough. Stop pretending to be kind. Dad was never sick." I think I must have misheard him. "What?" He lets out a cold laugh and continues, "If you hadn't refused to divorce him all these years, why would he have needed to fake an illness just to be with Vern in secret?" My whole body trembles as I demand proof. Clark hands me a marriage certificate. On it are the names Craig and Verna Bloom, my widowed sister-in-law. The two lean against each other intimately, smiling sweetly at the camera. In an instant, rage and grief overwhelm me. The family I spend half my life building turns out to be nothing more than a complete lie. Clark continues expressionlessly, "Actually, Vern is my real mother. Your child was drowned in a bathtub long ago. Back then, Dad and Vern couldn't resist each other. She went into premature labor and nearly bled to death. She gave birth to me on the same day you gave birth. "Dad was so frightened that he developed heart palpitations. He was afraid you'd never stop causing trouble if you found out, so he pretended to be sick for 30 years." Curled up on the floor, I cough up a mouthful of blood. "Why tell me now?" Clark looks at me with eyes full of nothing but hatred. "You stole Vern's place for 30 years. And now, even on your deathbed, you want my dad to owe you a favor. Why should he?" An inexplicably bitter taste fills my mouth. In the end, I die consumed by regret. When I open my eyes again, I find myself in the delivery room next to Verna's. A wave of excruciating pain surges through my lower body.

The night before my wedding, a car hit me and put me in the hospital. Not one person in my family would pick up. Neither would my fiance. With nowhere else to turn, I posted a single message in our family group chat. "I was in a car accident. Can anyone come see me?" My oldest brother, a senior government official, called back with the smooth official impatience he used at work. "Rosalie, you've had a heart condition since you were a child. Jocelyn has spent five years being the daughter to Mom and Dad that you couldn't be. Show a little gratitude, and stop using an ugly lie like this to wreck the birthday party we planned for her." Then my second brother—an internationally renowned designer—spoke from beside him, his voice laced with impatience. "Stop calling us, and stop calling Miles. The wedding's tomorrow. Can't you keep quiet for one day? You really think the whole world has to revolve around you?" I hung up without a word, and the tears slid from the corners of my eyes. Then the door opened, and my third brother, who was also my cardiac surgeon, came to stand beside the bed with something complicated in his face. "Rosie, the donor heart that was supposed to go to you went to Jocelyn's cousin instead. Be reasonable about this. Our family owes her. Go into the group and apologize, say you lied, and let her have her birthday. "Don't worry. She's already found a broker. He can get you another heart in about a month, and you can wait that long. I'm here. Everything's going to be fine." It was like going through the ice on a lake. I pulled up a smile that wouldn't hold. "Nathaniel, how long has it been since you looked at my reports? I think I've got about two weeks left."