In Death, You Finally Learned to Love Me

The surgery lasted ten hours.

Today marked the second day of my disappearance.

My mother, unable to reach me, finally called Allen's phone. He didn't even glance at the screen before pressing decline.

Unwilling to give up, she sent him a message, pleading for any news of my whereabouts. He didn't reply. His gaze remained fixed on the operating room doors, unblinking.

His assistant arrived at the hospital, carrying a stack of contracts and agreements that needed his signature. In the midst of handing over the documents, his peripheral vision caught something on a medical report.

He hesitated.

"Mr. Jones, is Madam sick? I noticed her name on the hospital records. You two have been separated for three days—maybe you should give her a call?"

Allen signed the papers without looking up. He was still angry.

"Don't mention her to me. She values her life too much. Just had a full-body checkup a few days ago—what could possibly be wrong with her? She called earlier just to stir up trouble. If I don't teach her a lesson, she'll never learn.

"She knows better than anyone that I hate being lied to, yet she still jokes about her health. Does she think cancer is something to play around with? One day, if something really happens to her, how would I even know if she's telling the truth?"

The assistant wiped his forehead, troubled. He hesitated, then spoke carefully.

"But Miss Darby's illness isn't Madam's fault. She didn't even know about your relationship. It's only natural she misunderstood. As husband and wife, if misunderstandings aren't cleared up, they'll only cause more problems later."

He hesitated again, lowering his voice.

"Madam isn't someone who speaks recklessly. Since her name is on the hospital records, wouldn't it be best to check, just in case?"

Allen's expression darkened. His gaze drifted back to the glowing light above the operating room.

"I told you not to meddle. Bring this up again, and you can hand in your resignation."

The assistant lowered his head and quickly left, arms full of documents.

Allen canceled all his meetings and sat in the corridor, waiting. Another ten hours passed in silence.

Then, the light above the operating room flickered off.

At the same time, I took my last breath in the operating room next to Sadie’s.

My soul drifted aimlessly through the hospital corridors, weightless, unanchored. I watched as Allen sat there, his face pale, his expression drawn tight with worry. My broken heart sank even deeper.

The doors swung open, and Sadie was wheeled out, still weak from surgery.

Allen rushed forward, gripping the side of her bed.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was laced with concern. "Does it hurt?"

Sadie smiled faintly. The anesthesia was wearing off. She shook her head.

Allen exhaled, relieved. He turned to the doctor.

"The patient who donated her heart—where is she? I want to see her. She's a benefactor to my family. I'll handle her funeral arrangements and prepare five million for her family."

Before the doctor could speak, Sadie grasped his wrist.

"Allen, it hurts…"

Her voice was soft and fragile.

"Can you stay with me?"

Allen forgot everything else. He helped the nurses push her to her room. As he walked alongside the bed, he kept pressing the staff for pain relief options.

"No matter the cost, give her whatever will ease the pain."

A nurse, clearly exasperated, finally spoke up. "Mr. Jones, the doctor did an excellent job. Extra medication isn't necessary. Side effects could slow her recovery."

Only then did he relent.

He stepped into Sadie's room. Before the door even closed behind him, my mother arrived at the hospital, tears streaking her face.

Spotting him, she broke down completely.

"Allen, where is my daughter? She never ignores my messages. Something must have happened. She's your wife. How can you be so heartless?"

Her fingers clutched her phone, the screen filled with unread messages, desperate pleas left unanswered for two days.

Allen frowned, glancing toward Sadie's room. His patience was fraying.

"Who told you to come here? If your daughter is missing, find her yourself. Why are you asking me?"

His tone was cold, indifferent.

"She left on her own. Do you think she'd tell me where she went? She even lied to me about her health. Do you think someone like that would ever tell the truth?

"I should be asking you—how did you raise her to be like this? And now you dare come here, making a scene? Did Mia send you to put on this little performance? Tell her this—there's nothing to discuss. If she refuses to apologize, she can forget about ever stepping foot in the Jones family home again."