My Husband Gave My Grandmother’s Heart to His Mistress

The call came at two in the morning.

I was awake already. I'd been awake for hours, sitting at the kitchen table with my hand pressed against my stomach, feeling the flutter of something that shouldn't exist. The phone lit up the dark. Seattle General. My chest locked.

"Ms. Stewart?" The voice was tired but urgent. "Your grandmother's condition has deteriorated. But we have news — a donor heart has been located. It's a match. We're scheduling surgery for tomorrow afternoon."

I couldn't breathe. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. I know it's sudden, but these windows are small. Can you be here?"

"I'll be on the next flight."

I hung up and sat there shaking. Relief and terror fought for space in my chest until I thought I'd split open. Eleanor was going to live. She was going to live.

I booked a ticket on my phone. Six AM departure. Then I did something I couldn't explain, something stupid and reflexive and pathetic. I called Kaiden.

He answered on the fourth ring. His voice was rough with sleep. "Priscilla?"

"They found a heart," I said. "For Eleanor. Surgery's tomorrow."

Silence. Then: "That's good."

"I'm flying to Seattle in a few hours. I just — I thought you should know."

Another pause. Longer this time. "I'm sorry about your grandmother," he said finally. The words were flat. Polite. Like he was talking to someone he used to work with. "I hope it goes well."

Then he hung up.

I sat there holding the phone, staring at the black screen, and told myself I didn't know why I'd expected anything different.

---

Kaiden set the phone down on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling. Beside him, the sheets were cold. Layne had gone home hours ago. He closed his eyes and tried to feel something about Eleanor Stewart — the woman who'd raised Priscilla, who'd smiled at him across Thanksgiving tables, who'd told him once that he reminded her of her late husband.

He felt nothing. Just tired.

His phone buzzed again. A text this time. Layne.

*Are you awake?*

He typed back. *Yeah.*

*Can you come over? I need to talk to you. It's important.*

He looked at the clock. Three in the morning. He should say no. He should go back to sleep. Instead he got dressed and drove across the city to her apartment, the one he'd been paying for since she'd moved out of the building with the security cameras.

She opened the door in a robe, her face pale, her eyes red. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know who else to call."

"What's wrong?"

She handed him a folder. Medical documents. Printed on hospital letterhead. His eyes scanned the words without understanding them at first. Cardiac failure. Severe ventricular dysfunction. Immediate transplant required.

He looked up. "What is this?"

"I saw a cardiologist last week," she said. Her voice broke. "I've been having chest pain. Shortness of breath. I thought it was stress. But it's not." She pressed a hand to her sternum. "Kaiden, my heart is failing. And if I don't get a transplant soon, the baby —"

She didn't finish. She didn't have to.

Kaiden felt the floor tilt. "How long?"

"They don't know. Weeks, maybe. They put me on the transplant list, but the wait times —" She looked away, tears spilling. "I'm so scared."

He pulled her into his arms. She was shaking. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, too fast, too hard, like an engine about to blow. "It's going to be okay," he said. "I'll fix this."

"You can't fix this."

"Yes, I can."

She pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were wet and desperate and so, so fragile. "Kaiden —"

"I can fix this," he said again.

He left her apartment at four in the morning and started making calls.

---

Dr. Raymond Holt's phone rang at six AM. He answered it in his kitchen, coffee halfway to his mouth.

"Dr. Holt, this is Kaiden Cole."

Holt set the mug down. He knew the name. Everyone knew the name. "Mr. Cole. What can I do for you?"

"I need to talk to you about a patient. Layne Guzman. She's been diagnosed with severe cardiac failure and needs an emergency transplant."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm not her physician. You'd need to speak with —"

"I'm calling about a donor heart," Kaiden said. His voice was calm. Too calm. "I understand there's one being allocated today. I need it redirected to Ms. Guzman."

Holt went still. "Mr. Cole, that heart is already matched to a recipient. Eleanor Stewart. The surgery is scheduled for this afternoon."

"I'm aware."

"Then you understand I can't —"

"Dr. Holt." Kaiden's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "I've donated seven million dollars to Seattle General over the past five years. I sit on the board of three hospitals in this city. I'm asking you — as someone who understands how these systems work — to reconsider the allocation."

Holt's hand tightened on the phone. "This isn't about money. It's about medical ethics. Mrs. Stewart has been waiting —"

"Layne Guzman is twenty-eight years old and pregnant," Kaiden said. "Eleanor Stewart is seventy-six. You're a doctor. You make these calculations every day."

"Not like this."

"Exactly like this." Kaiden's voice softened. "I'm not asking you to do anything you haven't done before. I'm asking you to save two lives instead of extending one."

Holt closed his eyes. He thought about his mortgage. His daughter's college tuition. The board meeting next month where his contract would be reviewed.

"I'll need to make some calls," he said finally.

"Thank you, Dr. Holt."

The line went dead.

Holt sat there for a long time, staring at his coffee. Then he picked up the phone and started making the calls that would kill Eleanor Stewart.