My Heart Beating in His Chest

For five years, through poverty and illness, I had stood by Julian's side without a single complaint.

He knew how much I loved him; that's why he fought so hard to believe I would ever leave. And I knew how deeply he loved me; he would never have let me trade my life for his.

So, to save him, I had to be cruel. I feigned disgust at our poverty. I acted like I was suffocating, like I had lost all hope in our future.

I told him I was sick of the cheap medicine, of eating plain bread, that a life like that was driving me insane. I told him I was done.

I still remember the day I left. The boy who had faced his own death without flinching finally shattered, his tears blurring the ink as he signed the divorce papers.

And I signed my name on the organ donation consent form.

After the surgery, I left, my chest hollow in more ways than one, and returned to Seattle. I moved into a damp, dark basement apartment, surviving on odd jobs, waiting for the seven-year clock on my cheap heart to run out. I never expected to see Julian again. He moved on, becoming the man he was always meant to be, while I was frozen in the past. A wave of bitterness would wash over me whenever his confident face appeared on the news, always followed by a sharp, secret pang of relief.

My phone rang, shattering the memory.

It was the bank, informing me the fifty-thousand-dollar transfer had been "recalled by the sender." I had to return the funds immediately or face legal action.

I hung up, a silent, bitter laugh escaping my lips.

After a moment, I called my best friend, Chloe Chen, and asked her to help me find work. My weak heart meant most jobs were out of the question; I survived on small gigs. Chloe, knowing my limits, found me a position as a server at a charity gala—five hundred dollars for a night of relatively light work.

Dressed in the server's uniform and mandatory mask, I was carrying a tray of drinks through the gala when I saw him again. Julian stood tall and commanding in an expensive tuxedo. Scarlett, in a stunning haute couture gown, was radiant on his arm. Arms linked, they were the perfect power couple, the center of everyone's admiration.

I glanced at them and immediately looked away, disappearing into the crowd. Anonymous. But just as I turned a corner, Scarlett's voice cut through the air.

"What kind of service is this? Can't you see you've spilled a cocktail on my dress?"

I stopped, noticing for the first time a damp spot on her gown's hem. Without a word, I knelt to gently blot the stain with a napkin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian watching, his brow furrowed.

A flash of malice crossed Scarlett's eyes. She kicked out, the heel of her shoe driving hard into my chest. A blinding pain erupted, and I collapsed, a groan torn from my lips.

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands! Security, get her out of here!" Scarlett's face was a mask of fury, but her lips curled in a smirk of triumph.

Though the mask covered my face, he knew me the second our eyes met. A flicker of pain crossed his face before it was replaced by a cold sneer. He held up a hand, stopping the approaching guards, then strode forward and ripped the mask from my face.

"Rosalie," he sneered. "Have you fallen so low you can't even bear to show your face to your ex-husband?"