When My Husband Stole My Donor Heart for His Mistress

The first thing I always noticed was the sound. In the silence of the elevator ascending to the penthouse suite of the Plaza Hotel, the rhythmic *whir-click* of the titanium pump inside my chest was deafening. It was a metronome counting down seconds I wasn’t sure I had left. Today was supposed to be different. It was our fifth anniversary. I clutched the velvet box in my hand—a vintage watch Maxwell had admired for years—and tried to steady the tremor in my fingers.

I hadn’t told him I was coming back early from the business trip. I wanted to see the look on his face, the boyish grin that used to light up the Hamptons summers when we were sixteen. That was the Maxwell I was fighting for. That was the man I had carved out my own failing heart to save.

The suite door yielded to my key card with a soft beep. The foyer was dim, smelling of expensive champagne and the cloying, herbal scent of sage—*her* scent.

"Maxwell?" My voice was a ghost, barely disturbing the air.

No answer. Just a low murmur from the bedroom. I walked forward, my legs moving through sludge. The bedroom door was ajar. Through the crack, the afternoon sun sliced across the unmade bed.

Maxwell was there. But he wasn’t alone.

Peyton Willis straddled him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw as if she were sculpting him from clay. She was whispering something about "energy blockages" and "spiritual alignment." Maxwell’s eyes were closed, his expression one of surrender—not to love, but to a narcotic haze.

I pushed the door open. The hinges whined.

Maxwell’s eyes snapped open. For a second, I saw panic. Then, like a shutter falling, his gaze turned flat. Dead. There was no scramble to cover up, no stammered apology. He simply pushed Peyton aside gently and sat up, pulling the sheet over his waist.

"You’re home early," he said. His voice was devoid of warmth, a stranger speaking through my husband’s mouth.

Peyton didn’t even flinch. She smoothed her silk robe, offering me a pitying smile that didn't reach her predatory eyes. "Camilla. Your aura is incredibly fractured today. It’s disrupting the flow in the room."

"Get out," I whispered, the mechanical valve in my chest fluttering violently.

"Maxwell needs grounding," Peyton purred, sliding off the bed. "You’ve always been so... tethered to the material world. It drains him."

I looked at Maxwell, waiting for him to defend me. To defend *us*. "Max?"

He looked away, staring at the wall. "Maybe you should go to the townhouse, Camilla. We have things to discuss."

The pain hit me then—not emotional, but physical. A sharp, grinding agony behind my sternum. The prototype was struggling.

***

The sterile white light of the clinic was a mercy compared to the golden glow of the Plaza. I sat on the paper-covered table, my shirt unbuttoned, exposing the jagged scar running down my chest. Dr. Elena Vasquez adjusted her stethoscope, her face grim.

"It’s the rejection markers, Camilla," Elena said softly, pulling the earpieces out. "The interface is degrading faster than we anticipated. The tissue around the valves is necrotic."

I buttoned my shirt with numb fingers. "How long?"

Elena hesitated, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Without a biological transplant? Ten days. Maybe less if the stress continues."

Ten days.

I laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "I ruined my body to save him from giving me his heart. I chose this machine so he wouldn't have to sacrifice his health. And now..."

"Now you need to fight for yourself," Elena said, gripping my hand. "We’re at the top of the list. But you need to reduce your stress levels immediately. Your cortisol is spiking."

"I can't," I said, sliding off the table. "I have one last thing to do."

***

The Henderson mansion on the Upper East Side was a mausoleum of old money and cold stone. I found Maxwell in the study, nursing a tumbler of scotch. The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a thunderstorm.

I stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of my mortality pressing against my ribs. "I want a divorce, Maxwell."

He swirled the amber liquid, not looking up. "Peyton said you would say that."

"This isn't about Peyton," I said, my voice steady despite the dizziness swimming in my head. "It’s about us. It’s over. I just want... I want to spend my time in peace."

Maxwell slammed the glass down. He stood up, towering over the mahogany desk, his face twisted in a snarl I didn’t recognize. "In peace? Or with half my assets?"

"I don't want your money."

"Liar!" He grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the desk and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, shards of glass raining down like diamonds. I flinched, my hand flying to my chest.

"Peyton told me everything," he spat, walking around the desk, closing the distance between us. "She saw it in the cards. You’ve been planning this. You want to bleed the Henderson empire dry and run off."

"I am dying, Maxwell!" The words ripped out of my throat.

He stopped, blinking. For a second, the old Maxwell flickered behind his eyes. Then, the mask of cruelty returned. "Another manipulation. Peyton warned me you’d play the victim."

He leaned in, his breath smelling of alcohol and malice. "You aren't going anywhere, Camilla. If you try to leave, I’ll freeze every account you have. I’ll ruin your family’s name so thoroughly your father will be ashamed to speak it. You are my wife. You stay until I say you can leave."

He stormed out, leaving me standing in the wreckage of the crystal vase. I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, seeing my own reflection fractured into a thousand pieces.

*Whir-click. Whir-click.*

Ten days. I was trapped in a glass prison, and the air was running out.