If You Only Had 72 Hours to Live
The day I signed my organ donation papers, my family was gathered around my adopted sister, Hailey, holding a cake they'd baked themselves to celebrate the start of her first clinical trial.
I have terminal brain cancer, and my stepsister, Hailey, had stolen my husband Zane's medical credentials.
She'd blackmailed a member of his staff to swap her healthy medical records with my terminal diagnosis, stealing the one spot in an experimental treatment that could have saved my life.
And the worst part? Everyone cheered her on.
The pain became too much. I fought to stay present, only to overhear the nurses whispering, "It's a good thing Dr. Zane secured that spot for Hailey. They said she only had three days left."
So, in the last 72 hours of my life, I quietly let go of everything.
When I gave Hailey the publishing rights of my novels, my father and brother gave me a satisfied smile.
When Zane decided to grant Hailey her dying wish by marrying her, he handed me the divorce papers. I signed without a moment's hesitation. He sighed and praised me for finally being "so reasonable."
And when I was the one who coaxed our daughter, Olivia, into calling Hailey "Mommy," Olivia gushed that her new mom was the best.
"Don't worry," Zane soothed. "We're just keeping it safe for now. Once she's gone, it'll all come back to you."
I gave Hailey everything I had, just like they wanted. So why, when they find out this was all Hailey's vicious lie, do they come crying, saying I'm the one they wanted all along?