Chapter 1
Outside the icy operating room, the white light from the surgical lamp sliced through the crack in the door, sharp as a blade.
Jennifer Hampton, seven months pregnant, stood at the end of the corridor, clutching a consent form for a live liver donation.
Her husband, Oscar Powell, had spent three minutes telling her that if she didn't sign the form, their child wouldn't be allowed to live.
And that liver was meant to save Georgia Harper, his beloved, whom he'd kept in his villa for seven years.
Last time around, Jennifer signed the consent form.
She hemorrhaged on the operating table, lost the baby, and didn't survive the surgery.
Oscar didn't come to see her one last time. He was in the room next door, holding Georgia's hand, telling her, "Thank you for waiting for me."
After getting a second shot at life, Jennifer found herself standing in that same corridor once more.
She didn't shed a tear, nor did she try to escape.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a reservation slip for a cremation urn, and slowly unfolded it. Jennifer smiled faintly at Oscar's assistant, Matthew Norton.
She said, "Could you ask Mr. Powell if he's satisfied with this design? I'm worried that after I'm dead, he'll complain about how it looks."
*****
Matthew's face went pale.
Last time, I died at thirty-four weeks.
The surgical lamp was the last thing I saw.
But what was colder than that light were the words Oscar spoke when he learned I was gone.
He said, "Clean it up. Don't let Georgia find out."
During our seven years of marriage, I'd taken the hits for him when the media came after us.
I'd been there for him every time his mother had a heart attack.
I'd put on the act of a loving couple whenever we were in public.
But my name never appeared on any of his invitations.
The night Georgia went abroad, Oscar drank himself into oblivion.
He gripped my wrist so tightly that I could hear my bones crack.
He told me, "You look like her.
"That's why you're here.
"But you're not her."
He kept saying those same things to me for seven years.
Back then, I put up with it for seven years until finally, I was buried on the Powell estate, with the baby inside me.
When I opened my eyes, it was as if time had rewound, and forty days had vanished from the calendar.
The surgery hadn't happened yet.
The consent form was still waiting for my signature.
The baby growing inside me was still alive.
This time, I looked up at the ceiling and ran my hand over my baby bump.
I swore that I wasn't seeking justice from Oscar this time.
I want to make it out of his life alive.
Oscar's assistant, Matthew, stood at the door of the hospital room, the consent form neatly tucked into a folder.
When he saw me coming down the hallway, he swallowed hard.
"Mrs. Powell, Mr. Powell said this consent form needs your signature today," Matthew said.
I stood in front of him, refusing to take it.
Last time, at this moment, I cried and begged him.
I asked if we could wait until after the baby was born before doing the surgery.
Matthew relayed my exact words to Oscar.
And Oscar's replied, "Sign it within three days, or I'll have Dr. Morrison arrange a forced delivery."
I believed him back then because Oscar would do it.
Once, after Oscar blew up, he kicked my nightstand over.
That day, I spent thirty minutes picking up broken glass from the floor.
The next day, he came back acting as if nothing had happened. When he saw the band-aid on my hand, he gave me a frown.
"Be more careful next time," he said.
He told me to be careful. That wasn't an apology.
He never apologized.
Matthew was still waiting for my answer. I looked away from the folder in his hand and gazed at the closed door at the end of the hallway.
Georgia was inside that room. She was in the final stages of liver failure and desperately needed a live donor.
Only two people in the whole country were a match.
One of them was me.
The other was overseas and couldn't be reached.
"Matthew," I said.
"What is it, ma'am?" he replied.
"Could you ask Mr. Powell something for me?" I said.
Matthew tilted his head slightly.
"Ask him, if I die on the operating table and the baby's gone too, how grand a funeral does he plan to throw for me?" I said.
Matthew's expression froze for a second. His fingers whitened around the folder.
"Mrs. Powell, please don't say that. Mr. Powell's got the best surgical team lined up. It's safe," Matthew said, trying to reassure her.
"It's safe," I repeated, letting the words hang in the air.
I let out a laugh.
It wasn't the smile I used to give him last time, trying to please, or the one full of grievance.
I thought those words were absurd.
A woman, thirty-four weeks pregnant, was donating half her liver, and they called that "safe."
"I'll think it over," I said.
I turned and walked away.
Matthew called out after me, "Mrs. Powell."