Chapter 1
As I was scrolling through an anonymous help post, coffee suddenly splashed onto my hand, leaving a glaring red burn.
The post's title was: "How can I get my wife to willingly donate a kidney to the college girl I'm sugar-daddying?"
The post went into detail, saying his wife was gentle and thoughtful, comes from money, and they'd been college classmates married for five years.
The college girl, bubbly and cute, was diagnosed with kidney failure and desperately needed a transplant.
He loved her and couldn't bear to lose her.
And the most crucial thing was that his wife and the girl's blood types were a perfect match for the transplant, like some kind of miracle.
Every word felt like a scalpel, slicing through my marriage, one cut at a time.
My name is Jennie, and my husband is Kevin Parker.
We'd been married for five years, and we were college classmates.
And I had just found out that my blood type was the rare Rh-negative.
As I scrolled down, a top-voted comment jumped out at me: "Easy. Just pay to fake a medical report saying your wife has kidney failure. Then have your girlfriend play the saint and volunteer to donate a kidney.
Once your wife is completely overwhelmed, manufacture a little 'accident', like your girlfriend suddenly can't donate, or there's a minor issue with the match. In the end, it'll be perfectly reasonable to suggest your wife's kidney is actually fine, and she should 'repay the favor' by donating to your girlfriend. One for one, fair exchange. She'll be so grateful, she won't even suspect a thing."
I stared at those words and smiled.
My pale, smiling face was reflected on the phone screen.
Then I hit the like button.
*****
The next day, Kevin Parker came home half an hour earlier than usual.
He was holding a brown paper bag, his face showing a practiced sorrow, like he'd been rehearsing it in front of a mirror.
He sat across from me, opening his mouth a few times but never saying anything, then finally slid the bag over to me.
"Jennie, open it up and see," he said.
His voice was hoarse, trembling just enough to sound convincing.
I did as he said and opened it. Inside was a medical report.
My name and ID number were both correct.
And under the diagnosis, it clearly read: Chronic Kidney Failure (End-Stage Renal Disease).
I looked up at him, letting my eyes fill with fear and confusion at just the right moment.
"Kevin, what... what does this mean? Did they make a mistake? I just had a check-up last week and the doctor said I was perfectly healthy," I said.
Kevin wrapped me in his arms, his hand gently stroking my back.
"Jennie, don't be scared, don't be scared. It's me... I couldn't stop worrying, so I asked Dr. William at Central Hospital to rush a deep examination for you. The results... the results..."
He choked up, his body trembling against my shoulder, like the sky was falling.
He was really putting on a show.
I almost felt like applauding him.
"How did this happen... How did I end up with this?" I sobbed, burying my face in Kevin's chest.
I cried like my heart was breaking, clinging to him.
The tears were real, but they weren't for me, they were for the five years of marriage that were gone.
"It's okay, Jennie, it's okay!" Kevin said, holding me tight.
He hugged me like I was the most precious thing in the world. "Medicine's amazing now. Once you get a transplant, you'll be just like everyone else! Money's not an issue, and I'll figure out the kidney part too!"
Every word he spoke carried weight, filled with the unwavering resolve and tenderness of a devoted husband.
I looked up at him, tears streaming down my face, and said, "Kevin, thank you. I'm grateful you're here for me."
He kissed my forehead, his eyes overflowing with love and gentle affection.
"Silly girl, we're husband and wife. There's no need for words like that between us," he said.
Over the next few days, Kevin threw himself into the role of the devoted husband, running himself ragged for his "sick" wife.
He canceled every unnecessary dinner and gathering, made sure to be home right on the dot, and cooked up all sorts of soups rumored to help the kidneys.
He was always on the phone, tapping into his network, his brow furrowed as he hunted for a kidney match.
Meanwhile, I played the fragile wife, crushed by illness but kept afloat by my husband's supposed love.
Every day, I watched his performance, as he coddled and lied to me like I was some clueless fool, while inside, all I felt was a chilling calm.
He had no idea that I'd already taken a picture of that fake medical report, the one he was so proud of.
He also never realized that the "Dr. William" he kept talking about was actually my college senior's advisor.
One phone call, and I had the whole story.
Dr. William had never even seen any of my test samples. Kevin had paid 15,000 dollars to a pharma rep to have the report forged.