I Gave Him My Kidney, He Gave Her My Children.

The scream lodged right in the center of my throat. The taller guard shoved me through the front doors. My sneakers skidded across the porch.

"Keep walking," he barked.

My knees struck the wet pavement. Rain instantly soaked through my thin sweater, chilling my skin.

"And don't come back," the second guard added.

The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked into place.

I dragged myself up from the concrete. Water poured from the sky in sheets, blinding me. I pressed my forearm against my torn side. Estep sent a fresh wave of agony radiating through my ribs.

"Just to the gate," I whispered to myself. "Get to the gate."

My shoes squelched on the flooded driveway. The wind howled, pushing against my chest. I hugged my arms around myself, shivering violently.

"Hey! Get off the property!" a voice shouted from the security booth ahead.

I ignored the guard. I pushed through the wrought-iron pedestrian gate and stumbled onto the public sidewalk.

Streetlights flickered overhead. The road was empty.

I dug my trembling hand into my pocket. My fingers brushed against folded paper. I pulled it out.

The original hospital record. The donor consent form. My signature sat at he bottom, painted over by my own blood.

"You gave him nothing," Maya's voice echoed in my head.

I stared at the red smears on the page. Raindrops pelted the paper. The crimson stains diluted into pink streaks, running off the edges and splashing onto my shoes.

Five years of marriage. Two children. Half my liver.

Washed away.

"You really let them do this to you," I muttered. A harsh, rasping sound escaped my lips.

I crumpled the wet paper into my fist. The pathetic, devoted wife died on that operating table. The woman bleeding out on the street was a stranger.

"Clara Monroe," I said aloud, testing the name. It sounded ridiculous now. Fake.

Tires screeched.

A massive black Maybach tore around the corner. It hydroplaned slightly before slamming its brakes. Water shot up from a deep puddle, spraying the curb inches from my legs.

The engine idled with a low, menacing hum. The blinding headlights pinned me like a spotlight.

"Hey!" I yelled, shielding my eyes. "Watch the road!"

The driver's side door swung open. Then the passenger doors.

Four men stepped out into the storm. Matching black suits. Earpieces. They moved in perfect unison, snapping open massive black umbrellas.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

They didn't look at me. They formed two lines, creating a shielded walkway from the back door of the vehicle.

The rear passenger door glided open.

A polished leather shoe touched the wet asphalt. An older gentleman emerged. His gray hair was impeccably styled, defying the brutal wind. He wore a pristine three-piece suit.

He stepped under the canopy of umbrellas and walked straight toward me.

"I said, who are you?" I repeated, taking a half-step back. My spine flared with pain.

He didn't answer right away. He stopped two feet in front of me. His eyes swept over my soaked clothes. They locked onto the blood seeping through my sweater. Then, they dropped to the crumpled, ruined paper in my fist.

His jaw tightened. A flash of pure fury crossed his weathered face before he smoothed his expression into total neutrality.

Then, ignoring the puddle beneath him, he lowered himself down. His knee hit the wet concrete.

"Get up," I ordered, my voice shaking. "What are you doing?"

"Apologies for the delay," he said. His voice carried over the howling wind, steady and deeply familiar. "Traffic on the interstate was unreasonable."

I froze. The world seemed to stop spinning.

"Arthur?" I whispered.

"You are bleeding," Arthur noted, keeping his head bowed.

"I asked you a question. Why are you here?"

"We have been tracking your location since you missed your check-in last week," he replied. "The Chairman grew impatient."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I told him I was done. I told him five years ago."

"You told him you wished to play house," Arthur corrected gently. "He allowed you your vacation. It appears the vacation is over."

"I am not going back."

"You are standing in the rain, bleeding from a major surgical wound," Arthur pointed out. "Your husband has evicted you. Your children have rejected you."

I opened my eyes. The sprawling Monroe estate loomed behind me. The place where my husband sat by the fire with another woman. The place where my children called me a monster.

"They threw me out," I said. The words tasted like ash.

Arthur raised his head. "I can have the estate leveled by morning. The occupants can be relocated. Or disposed of."

"No," I snapped.

"As you wish."

"I gave him my liver, Arthur. I cut myself open for him."

"A poor investment," the old man stated. "One we will rectify."

The freezing wind whipped my wet hair across my face. The numbness spreading through my extremities wasn't from the cold. The desperate, pleading mother was gone. The old blood—the ruthless, calculating pulse of my family's legacy—began to thaw in my veins.

"Get off the ground, Arthur," I commanded. My tone dropped an octave. The tremor vanished.

He stood instantly. He brushed a nonexistent speck of dirt from his wet trousers.

"Much better," he murmured.

"You shouldn't have come," I said, eyeing the bodyguards. "Liam's security patrols this street. They will call the police."

"Let them call," Arthur replied. "The chief of police works for your father."

"I don't need a scene on my front lawn."

"It is no longer your lawn, Clara."

That hit me like a physical blow. I flinched.

"Do not pity yourself," Arthur instructed softly. "You are not a victim. You chose to pretend to be weak. You succeeded too well."

"I loved him."

"He loved the illusion of you. The docile wife. The quiet mother. He never knew the real you."

I looked down at the bloody paper in my hand. He was right. Liam Monroe married Clara the schoolteacher. He had no idea who I actually was. He had no idea what kind of monster he had crossed.

"Are you finished playing in the mud?" Arthur asked.

"I need a hospital," I admitted, swaying slightly.

"A private surgical suite is prepped and waiting at the compound," he assured me. "The best doctors in the state."

"Maya has the deed to the house. She forged divorce papers."

"We will buy the bank that holds their mortgage," Arthur said without missing a beat. "We will freeze their accounts. We will erase her."

I stared at him. The sheer, terrifying scale of power he offered. It was intoxicating. It terrified me. But mostly, it felt like putting on an old, familiar coat.

"I walked away from that life," I reminded him.

"And look where it got you." He gestured toward my bleeding abdomen.

I tightened my grip on the paper until my knuckles turned white.

"I want them to pay," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Arthur smiled. A cold, sharp expression.

"Now you sound like your father."

He reached inside his tailored jacket. He produced a small, velvet box and flipped the lid open.

Inside rested a heavy, black-and-gold seal. The emblem of the highest authority in the underground economy.

"What is that?" I asked, though I already knew.

Arthur extended the box toward me, bowing his head respectfully.

"Miss," he announced, his voice slicing through the storm. "The Chairman has sent me to bring you home to take over the syndicate."