When My Husband Stole My Donor Heart for His Mistress

The townhouse was no longer a home; it was a sensory deprivation tank. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the midday sun, stifling the air until it tasted like stale dust and sage. I sat on the edge of the chaise in the master bedroom, my phone in my hand—a useless brick. Maxwell had changed the wi-fi password. He had cancelled the driver.

Down the hall, the murmur of voices drifted like smoke. Peyton’s voice, low and hypnotic, wove around Maxwell’s baritone.

I stood up, the movement sending a sharp jolt through my chest. The *whir-click* of the titanium valve was erratic today, a stuttering rhythm that made my breath hitch. I needed to get to Dr. Vasquez. I needed the stabilizing injection she promised would buy me a few more days.

Maxwell met me in the hallway. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red, but there was a manic fervor in his gaze that terrified me more than his anger.

"I need to go to the clinic, Maxwell," I said, keeping my voice level. "My appointment is in an hour."

He shook his head, a pitying smile stretching his lips. "Peyton did a reading on you this morning, Camilla. The cards were clear. The Empress reversed. This sickness? It’s not physical. It’s a manifestation of your dark energy."

"My heart is failing," I snapped, my patience fracturing. "It is a machine, Maxwell, not a mood swing."

"It’s psychosomatic," he countered, stepping closer, looming over me. "You’re creating this crisis to punish me. I’ve cancelled your appointments. No more doctors feeding your delusions. You’re staying here where Peyton can cleanse the space."

I stared at him, horror cold in my veins. He wasn't just cruel; he was gone. Replaced by this puppet dancing on Peyton’s strings.

***

Desperation breeds ingenuity. I managed to slip out the service entrance while Peyton was burning palo santo in the foyer. My destination wasn’t the clinic—I couldn’t go there empty-handed. I needed to activate the private donor search protocol Elena had told me about. It required a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit.

I stood at the ATM on 5th Avenue, the wind biting through my coat. *Transaction Denied.*

I tried again. *Contact Financial Institution.*

My hands shook as I hailed a cab to Henderson Corp. If he wanted a war, I would bring it to his glass tower.

The receptionist, a girl I’d sent a wedding gift to last year, wouldn’t meet my eyes. "Mr. Henderson is in a meeting, Mrs. Henderson."

I pushed past her, throwing the double doors to his office open. Maxwell sat behind his desk, reviewing schematics. He didn’t look surprised. He looked disappointed.

"Unfreeze my accounts," I demanded, leaning on the desk to support my weight. The dizziness was a swarm of black flies at the edge of my vision.

"You’re hysterical," Maxwell said calmly, addressing the two board members sitting on the leather sofa. "I apologize, gentlemen. My wife is suffering from a severe mental breakdown. She’s not herself."

"I am dying!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. "And you are letting her kill me!"

Maxwell pressed the intercom button. "Security. Escort Mrs. Henderson out. And ensure she gets home safely."

Two burly men in suits appeared, gripping my arms. I didn’t fight them; I couldn’t. The energy required to scream had drained me dry. As they dragged me out, I saw Maxwell turn back to his papers, erasing me from his reality.

***

That evening, the humiliation became a spectator sport. Maxwell insisted we attend the masquerade charity gala at the Met. "Appearances, Camilla," he had hissed as he zipped up my dress—a high-necked crimson gown that hid the jagged scar and the faint hum of the machine beneath my ribs.

The Great Hall was a cacophony of string quartets and polite laughter. The noise vibrated in my chest, interfering with the pump’s rhythm. *Whir-click-stutter. Whir-click-stutter.*

Peyton was there, of course. She wore white, drifting through the crowd like a specter, whispering in ears and touching arms. She found us near the champagne tower.

"You look flushed, Camilla," she cooed, her voice carrying over the music. "Is the guilt weighing on you?"

Suddenly, the monitor taped to my side let out a shrill, piercing beep. My cortisol levels were spiking. Heads turned. Panic clawed at my throat.

Peyton lunged forward, feigning concern, and "accidentally" knocked a waiter’s tray. A wave of red wine splashed across my chest, soaking into the crimson silk, looking for all the world like a fresh, gaping wound.

"Oh no!" Peyton cried, loud enough for the entire circle to hear. "She’s had too much to drink again. Maxwell, she’s stumbling."

I wasn't stumbling from alcohol; I was failing. My knees buckled.

Maxwell grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. "For God's sake, Camilla," he hissed, his face a mask of disgust. "Stop making a scene. You’re embarrassing the family."

"I need... air..." I gasped.

"You need to sober up," he spat.

Through the haze of pain and the sea of judging eyes, I saw him. Standing in the shadows of an Egyptian pillar, a man in a black tuxedo watched us. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't laughing. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.

Nolan Larson.

Our eyes locked across the room. In his gaze, I didn't see pity. I saw a fury so profound it burned hotter than the fever consuming me. He took a step forward, ready to break his silence, ready to shatter the world to get to me. But I shook my head, a microscopic movement. *Not yet.*

Maxwell dragged me toward the exit, his grip bruising. I let him take me, leaving my dignity on the museum floor, while the machine in my chest counted down the seconds I had left to lose.