My Husband Planned to Harvest My Organs

The storm hits Seattle like a fist.

I'm awake when the lights flicker. I'm always awake now. Sleep means dreams, and dreams mean waking up to remember what Sabrina took from me. The machines beside my bed hum their steady rhythm—proof I'm alive, though I'm not sure why that matters anymore.

Thunder rattles the windows. The private clinic is small, exclusive, the kind of place where billionaires hide their mistakes. My room overlooks the sound, all gray water and darker sky. Jaxson chose it himself. Close enough to visit. Far enough that no one asks questions.

The door opens without warning.

I flinch, hands clutching the thin blanket. But it's not Jaxson. Not Sabrina.

A woman in black tactical gear sweeps the room with eyes that miss nothing. Dark hair pulled back, earpiece glowing faint blue. She moves like water—fluid, purposeful, lethal.

"Clear," she says into her comm. "Subject located. Condition stable."

Subject. The word makes my stomach turn.

Footsteps in the hallway. More tactical gear. Then a man in a charcoal overcoat, rain-soaked, silver threading through dark hair at his temples. He's older than Jaxson—mid-forties, maybe—but carries himself like someone who's never had to prove anything.

His eyes find mine. Gray, like Jaxson's, but without the ice.

"Audrey Bennett." My name in his mouth sounds like an apology. He crosses the room slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. "My name is Jameson Murray. I'm getting you out of here."

I press back against the pillows. "I don't know you."

"No." He stops at the foot of the bed. "But I know you. I've known you for a long time."

The woman—Elena, I hear someone call her—positions herself by the door. Outside, I hear muffled sounds. Shouting. Something heavy hitting the floor.

"Your grandmother," Jameson says quietly. "Margaret Bennett. Stage four pancreatic cancer, seven years ago. The hospital bills were drowning you. Then an anonymous donor paid everything. Treatments, hospice care, funeral costs."

My breath catches. "That was you?"

"I couldn't let you suffer alone." His voice carries weight I don't understand. "I should have done more. Should have stopped this before—" His jaw tightens. "Before my nephew destroyed you."

Nephew. The word clicks into place. Jameson Murray. The black sheep. The one Jaxson never talks about.

"He'll come for me," I whisper. "He always comes."

"Let him try." Jameson shrugs off his coat. It's cashmere, still warm from his body. He drapes it over my shoulders with careful hands. "The nightmare ends tonight, Audrey. I promise you that."

Elena appears at his elbow. "Sir, we need to move. Hudson's reinforcements are ten minutes out."

Jameson nods. Then, to me: "Can you walk?"

I don't know. Haven't tried since the surgery. Since Sabrina carved out my future and left me hollow.

"Doesn't matter." He slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back. Lifts me like I weigh nothing. The coat falls around us both, and I catch his scent—cedar and rain and something that feels like safety. "I've got you."

The hallway is chaos. Two guards on the floor, unconscious or worse. Elena's team moves in formation, weapons drawn, clearing corners. We pass the nurses' station—empty, the staff probably locked in a supply closet somewhere.

"The cameras?" Jameson asks.

"Looped," Elena confirms. "As far as Hudson's security knows, she's still in bed."

The elevator descends in silence. I count the floors. Five. Four. Three. Each number a step further from Jaxson's reach.

The parking garage smells like oil and concrete. A black SUV idles near the exit, engine purring. Elena opens the rear door, and Jameson settles me inside, buckling the seatbelt with gentle efficiency.

"Where are we going?" My voice sounds small.

"New York." He slides in beside me. "My penthouse. Secure. Private. Yours, for as long as you need it."

The SUV pulls out into the storm. Rain hammers the windshield, turning the city into watercolor streaks. I watch Seattle disappear through the rear window—the clinic, the sound, the prison I called home.

Jameson's hand covers mine. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.

"You're safe now," he says.

I want to believe him. Want to believe the nightmare can end with a storm and a stranger's promise.

But I've believed in fairy tales before.

And they all turned into glass that cut me open.