The day I decided to donate my body to science, my family gathered around my adopted sister, Hailey, celebrating her acceptance into a cutting-edge experimental treatment program.
The one with brain cancer was supposed to be me. But Hailey used my husband Zane’s position at the hospital to swap her healthy medical records with my terminal diagnosis, stealing the one chance I had to survive.
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 original manuscripts of my novels I had poured my heart and soul into, 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?
…
My body was tearing itself apart, the pain a phantom ache that was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
With trembling hands, I fished out the last of my painkillers from my purse.
Three days to live. Good. This should be just enough.
The pill dissolved under my tongue, granting me a sliver of strength. I called a cab to the seaside villa.
The moment I pushed open the door, I froze. Hailey was lying on the white sofa in the living room. My father was sitting beside her, peeling an apple, while my brother fluffed her pillow.
