They Stole My Heart for Her

Joshua's tears were warm against my palm, yet they sent a chill straight through my bones.

I pulled my hand free and forced my lips into a smile. I looked at the three people hovering over my hospital bed—the people who were supposed to be my family.

"It's alright," I rasped. "Nina has suffered from heart disease for years. Now we're truly sisters in suffering. As the eldest, I'll simply endure this alongside her."

"Nina will recover soon."

My mother's voice cut through the air, sharp and immediate. The words hung there, sucking the oxygen from the room. Dead silence followed as her slip-up settled over us.

After a heavy pause, my father sat on the edge of my bed. With practiced gentleness, he pulled me into his embrace.

"Right when I was operating on you, a donor was found for your sister," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "Don't worry. Dad saved Nina, and he'll save you the same way. Dad loves you."

"A donor was found exactly while I was in surgery?" I kept my tone light, my head resting against his chest. "What a coincidence."

Under my cheek, his muscles locked up.

"Nina—"

"I'm joking, Dad." I pulled back, offering a hollow smile. "I'm happy for Nina."

The tension snapped. Everyone exhaled at once.

"Serena, Dad still has work to do. You should rest," he said, standing abruptly.

"Go on. Go keep Nina company."

His smile faltered, frozen in place. He opened his mouth, found no words, and left with my mother.

Joshua remained. His gaze followed my parents down the corridor. He shifted his weight, restless, eyes darting toward the door. He looked like a man serving a prison sentence.

I turned my head, my expression faint but permissive.

"You should go too. Treat it as helping me take care of my little sister."

He didn't hesitate. The moment the words left my lips, he vanished.

Watching the three of them flee, I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. I reached for my phone and dialed the international number I'd been holding onto.

"I've decided. I'll join the laboratory."

"You've really thought this through?" The voice was professional, stern. "Once you participate, the protocol is strict. No contact with your family for eight years."

"I've thought it through."

The coordinator agreed. I hung up, and for the first time since waking, peace settled over me.

As the screen went dark, I noticed an icon in the notification bar. The voice recorder was running.

During the accident, or in the chaos of the ambulance, my phone must have been jostled, hitting record. My thumb hovered over the file, trembling. I pressed play.

The audio was clear. It had captured everything—the panic, the orders, the cold-blooded coordination between my father and Joshua before and after my surgery.

Every unbearable conspiracy, documented.

The days dragged on. Joshua came daily, but his body was a shell, his mind elsewhere, eyes constantly checking his watch.

My parents visited too, but their stays were brief—perfunctory check-ins to maintain the charade.

Acting this way for Nina's sake must have been exhausting for them.

Outside my door, the nurses' hushed gossip drifted in. They thought I was asleep, or perhaps they just didn't care.

"Have you heard? The day she got into that accident, the rich young lady's heart just happened to find a donor. Heaven is blind."

"There's no justice. Professor Lambert hasn't worked a real shift in a month—spends all day in Nina's room. And Mr. Gilbert? Running around like her servant. Look at the one in here. Truly pitiful."

"I heard something worse. The hospital imported advanced cardiac medication from abroad. A nurse grabbed a dose for Serena. Professor Lambert slapped her. Confiscated the medicine and used it on Nina the next day."

"But Nina already finished her transplant. What good would it do her now? The patient in here can't sleep from the pain, and nobody cares."

"Don't you get it? They're not withholding medicine to be cruel. They have other intentions. They need a backup."

"A backup?"

"If Nina's recovery fails, they need the sister alive. She isn't a patient to them. She's a blood bag on standby. If you ask me, bringing her back to the family was just to harvest her blood."

Tears, hot and salty, streamed down my face. A stabbing pain radiated from my chest—a physical echo of the betrayal.

I looked at the dry bread in my hand. Forced my mouth open. Took a bite. Then another. I ate it all, choking down the dryness along with my grief.

I had to eat. I had to survive.