The Wife He Never Deserved

Nina

My fingers curled so tightly around the edges of my phone that my knuckles blanched. Every revelation I had just pieced together roared through my mind, making my breaths short and uneven. I had already come to terms with the crushing fact that Daryl had strayed—that he was an adulterer who had treated our vows like disposable scraps. But this newest discovery pushed beyond infidelity into something unspeakable.

My mother’s passing had not been some tragic twist of nature.

She had been handed over—offered up.

Moisture clouded my eyes while I pressed the device to my ear, trembling as I called Dr. Patel, the American physician who had overseen my mother’s care. He answered almost instantly.

“Nina?” Concern laced his tone. “Is everything okay? I didn’t expect your call.”

“Doctor Patel,” I rasped, swallowing against the ache in my throat. “I need clarity on how my mother died. Someone just told me she was removed from life support, that her heart was transplanted. I never authorized anything. Who approved that decision?”

There was a pregnant silence, then a weary exhalation. “We assumed you’d been informed. The move was based on a legally notarized directive. It stated your mother’s designated guardian chose to discontinue mechanical ventilation to avoid extended suffering. The prognosis for her coma was uncertain, and families sometimes decide their loved ones wouldn’t want to exist indefinitely in such a state.”

My stomach pitched. “She was far from a hopeless case! She had a ninety‑percent likelihood of regaining consciousness. How could that be classified as futile?”

“Her guardian—” his voice faltered “—finalized the paperwork. And, Nina… the forms bore your signature.”

My entire body went rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

“Daryl submitted the documents,” Dr. Patel admitted quietly. “They appeared to have your autograph. We assumed you and he had discussed it beforehand.”

A high‑pitched ringing filled my head. My signature? I never signed a single sheet of authorization. On the day she died, I was presenting research findings at a different hospital miles away. I hadn’t even been called until everything was finished. It hit me like ice water:

Daryl had forged my name.

The man I wed had stolen my mother’s life to give his mistress a new heart.

The betrayal struck like a physical punch. I staggered, bracing myself against a counter to stay upright. A strangled sound—half sob, half scream—escaped my throat, and a crimson haze of rage washed over my vision. How could someone I once cherished commit such an atrocity?

Tears streamed unchecked across my cheeks, my ribcage heaving. Dr. Patel kept calling my name, but I couldn’t force an answer past the thickness in my lungs. My mother hadn’t passed peacefully—she had been executed for someone else’s survival. All this time, while I mourned in good faith, the killer had been the person sharing my bed.

I dragged a sleeve across my wet face and sucked in a long, steadying breath.

No more paralysis.

He would pay.

He would feel every ounce of anguish he had dealt.

Spinning on my heel, I headed straight for the administrative office. “I have an urgent crisis. I must depart early,” I informed the supervisor, voice low but steely.

The administrator hesitated, but whatever they saw in my expression erased their objections. Within sixty minutes I’d shifted my return flight. My palms were surprisingly steady now, and although my heart still ached, a fierce, purpose‑driven fire had taken root.

During the taxi ride to the airport, I typed a single sentence to Daryl:

We need to finalize a divorce.

No explanations. No elaboration. Just a statement of intent.

Then I switched the phone off, fully aware of the turmoil that message would ignite.

By the time I cleared security, the device, now re‑enabled, vibrated with an avalanche of missed calls and frantic texts. Daryl was unraveling.

I ignored every alert.

On board, I gazed out at the receding skyline, leaving behind streets saturated with grief. Daryl would soon watch the castle he built on lies crumble block by block.

---

Back in the ward, Daryl’s phone slipped through his fingers, clattering against the floor as he reread my blunt message in disbelief.

“What on earth…?” he murmured, immediately redialing my number.

Voicemail.

He tried once. Twice. Half a dozen times.

Nothing.

Johanna’s brow wrinkled. “Honey, what’s going on?”

“Nina,” he growled, jaw clenched. “She just sent me a text. She wants to dissolve the marriage.”

Johanna’s lips curved in a dismissive smirk. “Finally. Took her long enough.”

Before Daryl could retort, a nurse stepped into the room, clipboard in hand. “Ms. Johanna, your discharge documentation has been processed. You’re free to leave.”

Johanna lifted an eyebrow. “That was quick.”

The nurse smiled politely. “Dr. Nina handled the authorization earlier.”

Daryl froze. “P‑pardon? Who did you say?”

“Doctor Nina Freeman,” the nurse repeated. “The physician who assisted during your partner’s emergency.”

The color drained from Daryl’s face as his world began to tilt. “Nina…? Here?”

His grip tightened on the rails of the hospital bed, a jolt of fear sparking behind his eyes. The woman he had deceived, exploited, and ultimately betrayed was no longer thousands of miles away.

She had been standing over them the whole time.