My Wife Lied to Steal My Kidney

Losing both kidneys left me looking weak and apparently, that made me an easy target. "I heard kidneys help filter waste," someone snickered. "Since he lost both, his stomach must be full of shit. No wonder he reeks."

Laughter rippled through the room. I stood there, silent, as they laughed at me like I wasn’t even a person.

Then Yolanda finally saw me. Her eyes widened for a second before she quickly composed herself and walked over, looking embarrassed.

"Callum, what are you doing here?" she asked, forcing a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea. Jordan just got back today and I wanted to welcome him properly."

Before I could say anything, Jordan slung an arm around her shoulders, grinning like he was enjoying the moment.

"Oh, Callum, it's you?" He laughed. "My bad, man. Yolanda went overboard with these crystal chandeliers, said they’d make me look even more handsome. Guess the glare messed with my eyes. Thought some random beggar wandered in."

More laughter. I ignored him and looked at Yolanda. "Do you know what day it is?"

She blinked, confused. I waited, still nothing. I let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. She had forgotten. Again.

For years, she brushed it off, saying old couples didn’t need birthdays. That just being together was enough.

Yet here she was, throwing a grand celebration for him, surrounding him with imported roses, draping him in designer gifts.

For me? Nothing. I must’ve looked ridiculous standing there.

Yolanda hesitated like she was about to say something, maybe explain, but Jordan suddenly groaned and clutched his stomach.

"Yolanda… my stomach hurts," he murmured, leaning into her. "I think my old wound isn’t fully healed."

Six years. He had been milking this same excuse for six years, but Yolanda panicked like it was the first time she’d heard it.

"What? You were fine just now! Maybe your shirt is too tight?" She fussed over him, adjusting his collar. "I told you, even if you wore a sack, you’d still be the most handsome man in the world, but you never listen."

Then she turned to me. "Callum, just sit down for a while, okay? Jordan isn’t feeling well. I need to take care of him."

And just like that, she was gone, helping him upstairs like I didn’t even exist. I stood there, stuck in a sea of roses and whispered laughter.

"Some people really think that just because they married Ms. Sinclair, they actually matter," someone sneered.

Another scoffed. "Please. Everyone knows Ms. Sinclair only ever loved Jordan. If Kyra hadn’t gotten there first, you think he would even be here?"

Mocking voices. Disgusted stares. I was just standing there, humiliated, while the woman who once swore to love me disappeared into an elevator with another man.

"Get lost already. No amount of roses can cover up the stench coming from your gut. Stop polluting the air. Honestly, what’s even the point of you being alive?"

Laughter followed, cruel and sharp, cutting through me like a blade. I said nothing.

My fingers curled around the divorce papers hidden in my pocket, crumpling the edges. My chest tightened, but I refused to let them see me break. Without a word, I turned and walked away, heading upstairs.

When I reached the suite, I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed. Something told me to turn around and leave. That I didn’t need to see whatever was happening inside.

But I looked anyway and I regretted it instantly.

Jordan was sprawled out on the sofa and Yolanda was practically draped over him, her skirt riding up as she clung to his neck. Her eyes were hazy, lips slightly parted, caught between hesitation and desire.

"Yolanda, is my skin still smooth?" Jordan murmured, his fingers trailing lazily over her arm. "Are there any scars?"

She squirmed, a weak attempt at resistance. "Jordan, we shouldn't... You're married now, I—"

"Shh..." He pulled her closer, tilting her chin up. "Yolanda, I remember everything you did for me. Even if I had to marry someone else, my heart still belongs to you." His voice dropped, smooth and coaxing. "I'm your rose, remember? Tonight, you can touch me as much as you want."

With that, he unbuttoned her dress, revealing a tattoo beneath her collarbone. He pressed his hand against it, then leaned in and kissed her.

Yolanda trembled. Whatever willpower she had left snapped in an instant and she kissed him back—hungry, desperate, as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life.

I had never seen this side of her before. The woman who always prided herself on composure, who once told me she hated recklessness, now throwing herself so completely at him.

For a second, I couldn’t move. Then something inside me cracked. I raised my phone, hit record and captured every second of it.

By the time I stopped, my hands were shaking. I couldn’t watch anymore. I stumbled out of the room, my legs weak beneath me.

Downstairs, I collapsed onto the curb outside the hotel, my head spinning. Laughter and music spilled out from inside, but none of it belonged to me.

I sat there, cold and empty, staring at nothing. Then, without warning—Splash.

A bucket of filth; rotten fish, shrimp, God knows what else, crashed over me, soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone.