My Husband Stole My Heart and Killed My Mother

Even without a heart, an unbearable ache spread through my chest and a fresh burst of blood spilled from my lips.

"Faye?"

At some point, Theodore had appeared.

His expression darkened at the sight of me coughing up blood again.

Without hesitation, he scooped me into his arms and laid me on the bed, his fingers trembling as he wiped the crimson stain from the corner of my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Faye. I failed to take care of you." His voice was laced with guilt; his eyes reddened, just as they always were whenever he saw me in pain. "Don’t worry. I’ve arranged for the best artificial heart. In a few days, you’ll have a new one."

I used to believe those eyes held sorrow for me. I even forced myself to be strong, whispering reassurances that I was fine just to ease his burden.

Looking back now, I was such a fool.

"Theodore, I've endured so much pain all these years." My voice was weak, yet every word carried the weight of my torment. "Can I stop using the artificial heart?"

‘Didn’t you already prepare spare donor hearts for Rhea? Then… can I have my heart back?’

For a brief second, hesitation flickered in Theodore’s eyes, then, just as quickly, it vanished behind a gentle smile. He stroked my hair, his touch deceptively tender.

"Faye, don’t say foolish things. You don’t have a matching donor. Without an artificial heart, do you want me to watch you die? You might as well kill me first."

No donor?

But the heart beating inside Rhea’s chest was mine.

A chill crept through my veins, numbing me from the inside out. Still, I forced a smile.

"You’re right. I was being silly."

With a soft laugh, I turned away, masking the ice settling in my bones. Using the excuse of preparing his bath, I emptied an entire bottle of sleep-inducing essential oil into the steaming water.

When he returned, exhaustion dragged him under almost instantly.

Perhaps he was lost in a dream of the woman he longed for because even in sleep, his voice murmured her name.

"Rhea… I will protect you, even if it costs my life."

A man I had loved with every piece of my shattered soul for seven years, yet in his dreams, he only had room for her.

A bitter laugh caught in my throat before it dissolved into tears, spilling unchecked down my cheeks.

With trembling fingers, I dialed my best friend, a doctor who had just returned from volunteering in Africa.

"I need your help with a surgery."

The reply came quick, laced with concern. "Are you sure?"

I exhaled softly, my gaze locked on the man sleeping soundly in front of me.

"Yes. Three days from now."

What was there to fear about death?

A life worse than death was far more terrifying.

Setting down my phone, I quietly took Theodore’s and walked into the study.

As expected, the passcode was Rhea’s birthday.

I never knew he had a second WhatsApp account.

He must have forgotten to switch back because his profile picture was nothing but two intertwined letters: "Love Rhea."

Such an unabashed, shameless declaration of devotion.

I opened his Instagram. Every post was filled with pictures of Rhea, each caption dripping with concealed yet boastful affection.

[The first day I arrived at the family, I saw Rhea and finally understood what it meant to be moved.]

[Rhea got married. I'm going mad with jealousy. I want to stuff her into my body so she belongs to me alone.]

[Today, I took Faye three times. I know her body can't handle it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I miss Rhea too much, so I keep calling her name in my heart as if that would turn the woman beneath me into her…]

And that wasn’t all. Post after post displayed extravagant gifts. Jewelry and handbags, each one meant for Rhea.

Not a single one for me.

He had even bought a heart-shaped island overseas in her name.

And the only thing Theodore had ever given me… was an artificial heart that brought nothing but agony.

While I was drowning in grief over my mother’s death, choking on blood and writhing in relentless pain, Rhea had been basking under the golden sun, sinking her feet into the soft sands of a private island.

My fingers trembled violently as I gripped the phone, nausea twisting in my gut. I stumbled to the side, my stomach lurching and dry-heaved.

In my unsteady state, I accidentally knocked against a bookshelf. A dull thud echoed as something fell.

I reached down to pick it up, only to realize it wasn’t a book.

It was a disguised box.

Inside lay several "voluntary heart donation" agreements, each page whispering a silent, sinister truth. Stacks of remittance receipts sat neatly beside them.

The room tilted. My vision blurred.

So this was what my suffering had been worth.