Chapter 3

"Mr. Torres, even though her kidneys are still functioning, Debbie is already in the late stages of stomach cancer. The cancer has spread to several places, and there are suspicious areas near her kidneys.

"Plus, her bone marrow can barely make any blood cells anymore..." the doctor said, his voice heavy with concern.

Ingram took the report.

But he didn't even bother to look at the rest of the results.

His eyes locked onto just one line: [Kidneys are still working.]

"Figures." Ingram sneered.

He slammed the report shut and shoved it against the doctor's chest. "As long as the kidney's good, that's all I care about. All that crap about cancer spreading or bad bone marrow?

"She probably took some pills or pulled some stunt just to get out of donating."

The doctor stared, eyes wide. "Mr. Torres, these scans can't be faked. Those are real tumors, no doubt about it..."

"Shut up!" Ingram snapped.

Ingram lost it. "I'm the one footing the bill. If I say she's faking, she's faking. Did she slip you some cash? Is that it?"

He pointed right at my nose. "Wow, Debbie, you've got some nerve. Even bribing the doctor? All this just to get out of saving Yolanda?"

I looked at him.

He suddenly felt like a stranger to me.

For three years of marriage, I cooked for him, looked after him, and took care of his every need.

Now, I was dying.

And he actually thought I'd bribed the whole hospital just to trick him.

"Ingram," I said.

I pushed myself up from the chair, using it for support. "If they cut me open and my insides are rotting away, what will you do then?"

Ingram stared at me, his gaze icy and merciless. "Then we'll cut out the rotten flesh and keep the kidney.

"Yolanda's surgery is next Monday. You're staying in the hospital until then. You're not allowed to go anywhere."

He motioned for two bodyguards to come over.

"Watch her. Don't let her escape, and don't let her eat anything she shouldn't. Only give her liquid food, flush out her system."

The bodyguards grabbed me, one on each side, and dragged me to my feet.

"Yes, Mr. Torres," they replied.

Ingram straightened his tie.

"I'm going to spend time with Yolanda. Stay here and reflect on your actions," he said.

He turned and walked away.

The sound of his shoes echoed down the hallway, fading into the distance.

The bodyguards dragged me into a hospital room.

It wasn't a real patient room, just a storage closet they'd hastily turned into a makeshift observation room.

There were no windows, only a hard board bed.

Only a hard board bed.

The bodyguards threw me onto the bed and locked the door behind them.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I curled up in the corner.

My stomach hurt so bad, it felt like someone was drilling into it with an electric drill.

I fumbled in my pocket and took out a small bottle of pills.

They were painkillers I'd secretly hidden away before.

I shook out two pills and, with no water, swallowed them dry.

The pills got stuck in my throat, and the bitterness spread down my throat.

Outside the door, I could hear nurses whispering.

"That poor woman. She's already in the late stages, but Mr. Torres still insists she's faking it."

"Shh, keep it down. Mr. Torres said anyone who talks out of turn gets fired. Ms. Walker is his future wife. Debbie's nothing but trash."

"Man, this is just wicked. This is murder."

Their voices faded into the distance.

I closed my eyes.

Murder?

Yeah. That was exactly what it was.

Ingram really wanted me dead.

Fine, then.

I would die right there on his operating table.

I would die right in front of his precious Yolanda.

Let him see with his own eyes what the kidney he had been dying to hand over to Yolanda really looked like.

By the third day locked up in that windowless room, my body was breaking down fast.

I'd run out of painkillers.

Every single second was pure agony.

I started vomiting constantly, unable to keep anything down.

Nothing I ate stayed down. Everything came right back up, until all I could throw up was yellow water and blood.

The bodyguards, grossed out, just tossed a mop and bucket in from the doorway, not even bothering to step inside.

"Clean it up yourself. Don't think you can get pity by pulling this stunt," one of them barked.

I slumped over the edge of the bed, a rag clutched in my trembling hand.

Bit by bit, I wiped the filth off the floor.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

My vision kept swimming in and out of darkness.

The door swung open.

A shaft of light spilled into the room.

Yolanda strolled in, hospital gown on and Ingram's jacket thrown over her shoulders.

She had a cup of coffee in her hand.

"So, Debbie, getting comfy in here yet?" Yolanda asked.

She pinched her nose, shooting a look of disgust at the vomit on the floor.

"Ugh, it reeks. Debbie, why do you smell like a corpse?" Yolanda said.

I didn't have the energy to deal with her.

I kept scrubbing the floor.

Yolanda strutted over and slammed her high heel right onto the back of my hand.

She twisted her heel, grinding it in hard.

"Ah!" I cried out, trying to yank my hand away.

But Yolanda just dug in even deeper, pressing down with all her weight.

"Debbie, don't think I can't see right through you," Yolanda said.

She bent down close, her tone sharp and poisonous. "You want to die on the operating table and make Ingram feel guilty for the rest of his life, isn't that it?"

I looked up at her, cold sweat pouring down my face.

Yolanda just smiled. "Too bad for you. You won't even get that chance."