She Drained Me for My Backup

My girlfriend had always been drawn to powerful men, yet she was perfectly content to keep a useless intern on her payroll.

She said she loved me with her whole life. When a routine health screening showed that the intern and I shared a rare blood type, she chose to keep him close.

She claimed it was just a precaution, a backup source of blood in case I ever needed it.

She cooked for him, took him on trips, made him gifts by hand, and fussed over him at every turn. She insisted it was all for my sake.

To build good karma for my future.

Then I was in a car accident. She arranged for blood to be brought in from over 60 miles away rather than let the intern donate a single drop. She said he had a cold and worried his blood might make me sick.

The next day, the intern was diagnosed with uremic nephropathy. My girlfriend drugged me and had me wheeled into the operating room to donate a kidney before I could say a word.

Her voice was gentle when she explained it afterward. "Daniel is our trump card. He has to stay healthy. He can only be used when your life is genuinely on the line, not wasted on every small setback. I had you donate the kidney for your own future, so you would stop overthinking everything. Once you are out of surgery, I am marrying you."

What she did not know was that I already had mid-stage leukemia. The surgery accelerated its spread. I was dying, and I would never have the chance to marry her.

"Mr. Wilford, your blood cancer was already at a mid-stage. The kidney surgery has accelerated its spread. We're looking at ten days, at best. You need to keep your spirits up and…"

The rest of the doctor's words faded into silence.

I forced myself out of bed, crossed to the window, and lit a cigarette. The long-forgotten sharp, acrid taste hit me, and my eyes watered before I could stop them.

Ever since my rare blood type came to light, my girlfriend, Winona Elstein, had kept me away from cigarettes and alcohol. She feared I would fall ill, that there would be no compatible donor when I needed one, and that I would die and leave her to grow old alone. I had not minded the rules. I quit both without much resistance.

Now, at the end of my life, none of that mattered.

Through the curl of smoke, I thought back to the car accident. The blood cancer diagnosis had followed soon after, and I had not found the right moment to tell Winona. Then she walked in with Daniel Lowe's test results in hand. He had uremic nephropathy, confirmed, and she asked me to donate a kidney.

I refused on instinct. She did not press. Instead, she told me she had bought an apartment near the office so I would not have to commute anymore, no more accidents. She framed it as a gift.

Only when they wheeled me into the operating room did I understand. What I had signed was not a property transfer agreement. It was an organ donation consent form.

The doctor watched me smoke, shook his head, and quietly left the room.

A second later, Winona's voice came from the doorway, warm with concern. "Doctor, how is Jordan doing?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

I turned from the window and said, "I'm fine."

Winona's eyes curved into a smile. "I knew it. I take such good care of you. Even losing one kidney won't make a difference."

She didn't mention the consent form or the lie. It was as if none of it had happened.

The cigarette burned down to my fingertips. I flinched and pulled my hand back.

Winona's brow furrowed. She turned and told the nurse to sweep up the ash. Then she reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the rest of the pack, and dropped every cigarette into the trash.

"I told you to stop smoking. Danny has rhinitis. The smoke bothers him," she said evenly.

So the rule had never been about my health. It had always been about Daniel's sinuses.

Behind her, Daniel came through the door, carrying a stack of items so tall it nearly hid his face.

Winona rushed over to help him and spread everything across my hospital bed.

Daniel looked at me and said, straight-faced, "Sorry, Jordan. I had no idea Winnie would trick you into donating. These are all gifts she gave me. Take whatever you want. Consider it my apology."

I looked at the pile: a hand-knit scarf and matching sweater Winona had made, a watch worth 200,000 dollars, a car key for a car worth 2,000,000 dollars, and a villa deed, all offered as an apology.

It felt more like a display. After all, Winona had never given me anything close to this. She always said we were past that stage, that our relationship did not need any fuss over gifts.