Chapter 1
My fiancé, David Carter, was diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer. I was a perfect match and donated half of my liver to him.
After the surgery, he hugged his first love, Serena Lane, and said, "If it weren't for your prayers, I wouldn't have survived."
I clutched the medical report showing the scar on my abdomen while listening to David propose to her. "Our livers are connected. We're meant to be."
That night, I died of a fever and infection in my rented room, my phone playing their wedding livestream on loop.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the moment before surgery, when the doctor asked if I was sure about donating.
I pulled out the IV, rushed into David's hospital room, and in front of all his family and friends, tore the consent form to pieces and scattered them over his pale face.
I said, "Oh, by the way— yesterday's test results show your precious Serena is actually a better match than I am."
Seeing his face fall apart, I leaned in close, a soft laugh escaping my lips.
I whispered, "So, what do you think? Is she willing to get on that operating table for you now?"
*****
When I opened my eyes, the familiar scent of disinfectant hit me.
The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor sounded in my ears, the IV in the back of my right hand gave a faint sting, and the LED lights on the white ceiling were so bright that they made me dizzy.
The doctor said, "Ms. Moore, are you absolutely sure you want to sign the consent form for liver donation? Even though you're volunteering, we have to remind you again—this is a risky, major surgery..."
The doctor in a white coat stood at my bedside, holding the consent form I could recite by heart.
I stared at the name tag on his chest—Michael Grant, Chief of Hepatobiliary Surgery.
In my previous life, Michael was the one who delivered the news after surgery. My complications hadn't been treated in time. I'd lost forty percent of my liver function permanently.
And the man I nearly died for was off in the Maldona, holding another woman, celebrating his wedding on the beach while I lay burning with fever, on the edge of death.
"Ms. Moore?" Michael called out again, his face showing concern.
I slowly turned my neck, feeling this body still untouched, no ugly scar yet. My abdomen was flat and smooth, the skin tight and flawless, with no sign of the scar tissue left by repeated infections after surgery.
It was November 3rd, 2025.
It had been a month since David was diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer, three weeks since I volunteered for the liver compatibility test, and three days since the results came back as a highly compatible match.
In forty-eight hours, I'd be signing that consent form like an idiot, lying down on the operating table, letting them cut me open, and giving 55% of my healthy liver to David.
There were forty-eight hours left.
"Mr. Grant," I said, my voice surprisingly calm, even with a hint of a smile. "Can I go to David's room first?"
Michael paused for a moment and said, "Of course, but in your condition, you really should—"
"I'm fine," I said, ripping the IV out of my hand. Blood beaded from the spot, but I barely noticed.
In my previous life, I spent eight hours on the operating table, then suffered repeated infections for three months. The 10-inch scar on my abdomen coiled like a centipede across my skin.
And the first thing David said after he recovered was, "Serena's prayers really worked. I actually experienced a medical miracle."
Serena.
She was the childhood sweetheart who vanished the moment David was diagnosed, only to reappear as soon as he found a donor.
She was the woman who sobbed, "Nina, you're incredible," right after I donated my liver, then turned around and posted cozy couple photos with David on Instagram, captioned: [Only after surviving life and death do you realize how precious true love is.]
She was the bride live-streaming her lavish wedding while I was alone in my apartment, burning up with a 104-degree fever, too weak to tell the emergency operator my address.
"Ms. Moore, your hand is bleeding!" the nurse exclaimed.
I got up from the hospital bed, grabbed the coat draped over the chair, and threw it on over my hospital gown. Barefoot, I stepped onto the icy floor.
"It's nothing, just a bit of blood," I said, smiling at the nurse. "Compared to what I'm about to lose, this is nothing."
Michael and the nurse exchanged looks, probably thinking this selfless fiancée was acting a bit strange.
But they had no clue. My mood wasn't off at all.
I transcended back.
With all the memories, pain, and overwhelming hatred from my previous life, I was back at the moment where everything could change.
"I'm going to see David. I'll be back soon," I said, heading straight out of the room.
The VIP ward was at the far end of the hallway. Barefoot, I stepped onto the polished tiles, making my way toward the room where the man I once gave everything for in my previous life lay.
The windows in the hallway were open, letting in the November wind, cold and bleak with that late autumn vibe.
Today was overcast, with temperatures between 8 and 15 degrees. In my previous life, after signing the consent form, I broke down at David's bedside, saying, "David, you have to get better. I can't live without you."
He gently patted my head and said, "Nina, when I'm better, we'll get married. I owe you everything."
He owed me everything.
Yeah, he really did owe me everything.
I traded my life so he and Serena could soar off into their perfect love story together.