Chapter 1

While Anthony Johnson was in the shower, his phone lit up with a call from the hospital. It was about his ex-wife's kidney transplant evaluation.

And he was the one donating the kidney.

I checked his yearly bank statements and found that for the three years we'd been married, and the two years before we got married, he'd been sending money to his ex-wife every month.

He came out with wet hair. When he saw me holding his phone, his face went pale.

"She's sick. She needs a kidney transplant." Anthony forced the words out. "Back then, I failed her."

I let out a soft laugh. It felt just like yesterday that Anthony walked in on her with another guy.

It turned out some hearts could never be warmed, no matter how hard I tried.

*****

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom, while warm yellow light blurred softly through the frosted glass door. Steam billowed out, thickening the air with damp heat.

I was curled up on the living room sofa, a fashion magazine draped across my knees, but my gaze was empty, lost in those hazy halos of light. I didn't take in a single word.

The air drifted with the scent of Anthony's cedar body wash, the one I'd carefully chosen for him last year because he said he liked it.

But now, that familiar fragrance seemed to coil around me, leaving me with a strange, suffocating heaviness I couldn't explain.

Anthony's phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen suddenly lit up, its cold white glow slicing through the living room's cozy dimness like a jarring flash of lightning. The caller ID showed no name, only a local number.

The water kept running, with no sign of stopping.

Almost without thinking, I reached out and picked up the phone, still warm to the touch.

My finger slid across the screen as I answered, "Hello?" My voice was a bit hoarse.

On the other end, a sharp, efficient woman's voice came through, carrying that echo I only heard in hospitals. "Hello, is this Mr. Anthony Johnson?"

I paused for a moment. "He's not available right now. Can I take a message?"

"Alright. This is the Central City Organ Transplant Center, calling to remind you that the final pre-op evaluation for Ms. Jennie Lane's living donor kidney transplant is set for tomorrow at 3 PM.

"Please be sure to bring Ms. Lane on time. We'll text you all the details and what you need to bring. If you have any questions, call this number."

Every word was crystal clear, like an ice pick drilling into my ears, one after another. 'Mr. Anthony Johnson. Ms. Jennie Lane. Living donor kidney transplant. Pre-op evaluation,' I pondered.

I gripped the phone, my fingertips icy cold, while my palm was slick with sweat, clammy against the smooth surface.

I needed to make sure.

I mustered every ounce of reason and forced myself to repeat it, "Let me confirm: this is for Anthony Johnson, ID ending in XXXX, arranging a kidney transplant for Jennie Lane, ID ending in XXXX, and the evaluation is set for 3 PM tomorrow, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's correct." Her voice remained steady and professional, completely devoid of emotion. "Please be on time."

The line went dead with a series of beeps.

I stayed frozen in place, still holding the phone to my ear, and only after a few long seconds did I slowly lower my arm.

The bathroom water had stopped running at some point, and the silence that followed was almost suffocating. All I could hear was my own heart pounding against my ribs, heavy and relentless.

Jennie. That name hit me like an old scar aching when the rain came, the pain creeping up on me out of nowhere.

She was Anthony's ex-wife, the woman he caught cheating in bed with another guy just a month before our wedding, who left in shame after the divorce.

She needed a new kidney. Anthony was handling everything for her.

A living donor transplant? Whose kidney? A horrifying suspicion surfaced, sending chills down my spine.

I unlocked his phone with my fingerprint. The process was so smooth it was almost laughable. He'd set it up himself one night when he was drunk, holding me close and saying, "Everything I have is yours."

I went straight to the banking app and checked the annual statements. My fingers trembled slightly from the pressure.

The screen finally loaded. Five years' worth of transactions appeared, crammed together in endless rows.

I took a deep breath and began reviewing the records from the very beginning.

Five years ago, we hadn't met yet.

Four years ago, we were starting to date.

Three years ago, we got married.

Then I found it. Every month on the fifth, like clockwork, a transfer went to Jennie.

The amount was never the same, sometimes 3,000 dollars, sometimes 4,000 dollars, and the biggest was 10,000 dollars.

Sometimes the memo said [living expenses], sometimes [medical bills], but most of the time, there was nothing, only her name staring back at me.

Transfer after transfer, month after month, it was like a hidden river, quietly flowing from an unknown past, running through the years we met, fell in love, and got married, and continuing even further.

It kept going right up to today. This month, on the fifth, another 3,500 dollars was sent.

Last week, Anthony frowned and apologized, telling me the sound system I'd been wanting forever would have to wait another two months. Money was tight because his project payments were delayed.

Clueless as ever, I comforted him, saying it was not urgent, we'd got the mortgage to worry about, and I understood.

I thought I understood.