I Was Dying While You Chose Her

I was by myself in the hospital when the doctor finally said the words out loud.

“Alina, the treatment on your bone marrow isn’t responding anymore. Transfusions will only delay things. You need a transplant as soon as possible, or your organs will start failing.”

I just nodded. Like I was processing it. Like I was still fully there. But I wasn’t.

My hands were trembling when I reached for my phone and dialed Viktor. My husband. Five years of marriage. A mafia king everyone feared—someone who could make people disappear with a single order. The same man who was supposed to be mine in a way no one else could ever be.

The line rang.

Once. Twice. Again.

Then it cut off.

I tried calling again, but it didn’t even bother ringing anymore.

My throat tightened as I stared at the screen, waiting like there was still something to hope for. Like an idiot who didn’t know better.

Instead, Instagram opened on its own.

A post.

From her.

My twin sister.

Same womb, different world. The one who left because she always said she deserved more—better cities, better opportunities, better everything. The one who never bothered hiding how much she resented that I had him first.

She was smiling in the picture, soft and almost innocent, her fingers loosely tangled with a man’s hand.

I knew that hand.

I knew that watch too. I was the one who gave it to him.

Viktor.

My stomach dropped before I even read the caption, but I forced myself to anyway.

“The man I’ve loved in secret is finally mine. Even if this is only borrowed time, I want it to last forever.”

My thumb slipped before I could stop it.

I liked the post.

Only after did I realize my face was already wet.

Not even a minute passed before my phone started ringing like it was going to break. His name flashed repeatedly, urgent, almost panicked.

I answered.

“Alina—don’t hang up,” he said quickly, voice rough like he’d been running. “Just listen to me.”

I stayed silent.

“I already know what you saw,” he continued. “But it’s not what it looks like. I swear. She agreed to be your donor—bone marrow. She said she’d help you. But she had a condition. Just one month. She wanted me to act like her husband during that time. That’s all. I never touched her. I never crossed any line. I did everything for you. Everything, Alina.”

My throat burned when I finally spoke. “Viktor… are you telling me that’s true?”

“Yes,” he answered too fast, then softened. “You’re my wife. You’re everything to me. I can’t lose you. I won’t survive it.”

A laugh escaped me, but it cracked halfway.

“Then why does it sound like you didn’t hesitate at all when you agreed?”

Silence.

Only his breathing filled the line.

And somehow, that silence hurt more than any denial.

Memories I didn’t ask for started flooding in.

Him showing up at three in the morning just because I mentioned my bones were aching and I couldn’t sleep. Him returning with greasy street dumplings like it was some grand offering. Him buying me a pair of shoes I casually pointed at once, pretending it was nothing. Him kneeling under fireworks on my birthday, holding a ring like his hands weren’t shaking.

“Wait for me after graduation,” he had said then. “I want forever with you, Alina.”

And I believed him.

Everyone did.

Viktor Calhoun—mafia boss, merciless to the world, but always gentle when it came to me.

When I was diagnosed six months ago, he never let go of my hand. Not once. He cried harder than I did, like I was already gone.

“If you give up, I give up too,” he told me. “Don’t leave me behind.”

After that, he searched everywhere. Legit hospitals, underground clinics, black-market doctors—anything. At one point I even caught him trying to donate his own blood, knowing it wouldn’t help. I once saw a draft of his will too. He didn’t even bother hiding it.

He wasn’t afraid of dying.

And then there was her.

He paid her.

One hundred million pesos. Clean transfer. No hesitation. Mafia money moving like nothing.

For her studies. Her future. Her so-called freedom.

But apparently, that still wasn’t enough.

Because she didn’t just want money.

She wanted him.

And the worst part was—he gave her that too. Even if he keeps insisting it’s still for me.

For the fourth time in six months, my twin backed out again.

There was always an excuse. Always another delay. And every time, Viktor ended up by her side like she was the one slipping away.

First time—she fainted. Said her sugar dropped. He stayed in her hospital room for three nights. Didn’t come home. Didn’t even send a message.

Second time—she claimed she couldn’t sleep. Anxiety attacks, nightmares. He sat through her therapy sessions, holding her hand until morning like he belonged there.

Third time—fever. The same day I collapsed during treatment, nurses calling his name over and over. He still left. Went straight to her.

And now this.

A new condition.

If he agreed to be her “husband” for one month, she would finally donate.

Just one month.

I was already in bed when he told me. My hands were shaking so badly I had to grip the blanket just to steady myself.

“Viktor,” I said, forcing my voice not to break. It still did anyway. “Just pay her more. Double it. Triple it. I don’t care. Don’t agree to her conditions. Please. Just make her do the transplant.”

There was a pause.

I heard him inhale slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Alina… we already owe her too much,” he said at last. “I can’t pressure her. She’s helping you. We should be thankful.”

Something inside me snapped clean.

“Owe her?” My voice rose despite me trying to stop it. “One hundred million isn’t enough? Or is there something else you feel like you owe her?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, I heard her in the background—soft, sweet, perfectly staged.

“Viktor… I burned my hand! It hurts… come here…”

His voice changed instantly.

“I’ll call you back,” he said quickly. “She needs me.”

Then the line went dead.

Just like that.

I kept staring at the phone until the screen dimmed. Something in me didn’t just hurt anymore—it emptied out completely, like everything had been scraped away and nothing was left behind.

I turned to the doctor.

“If I don’t get the transplant,” I asked quietly, almost like I didn’t want the answer, “how much time do I really have?”

He exhaled, tired, honest.

“A month. Maybe less. Your body is deteriorating fast. If we do the transplant soon, there’s still a chance. If not—”

“I understand,” I cut in softly. “It’s fine.”

I looked away from him.

“I won’t do it anymore.”

Because I knew my sister too well.

She wasn’t delaying it by accident.

Every day she stalled meant another day with him. And I was tired—tired of waiting, tired of begging, tired of being the only one still holding on.

That evening, I went back home.

The sky outside was painted gold and soft orange, like the world was pretending to be gentle for once. For a moment, I almost believed it. Almost thought maybe this was how endings were supposed to feel—quiet, merciful.

Then I stepped inside.

And what was left of me finally broke.