My Kidney for His Hatred

The day my ex finally made it big, the doctor told me I had less than three months to live.

On TV, a reporter was interviewing James Larson.

“Mr. Larson, what drove you to success?”

James chuckled, but his eyes were misty.

“The biggest push? Probably when I was diagnosed with kidney disease eight years ago, and my ex walked out on me.”

“I’m grateful she didn’t marry me. That was the wake-up call I needed.”

After the interview, he called.

“Amelia Simmons, I made it. Do you regret it now?”

I rested a hand on the spot where my kidney used to be and let out a bitter laugh.

“I do. And I have cancer now. Happy?”

James sounded satisfied. “Serves you right.”

He never knew—I got cancer because I gave him my kidney all those years ago.

I decided to stop treatment—I couldn’t afford the crushing medical bills.

As I was checking out of the hospital, my attending doctor rushed over.

“Miss Simmons, you don’t have to leave. Someone covered your medical expenses.”

Stunned, I quickly asked who.

The doctor gestured toward the front desk. “Mr. Larson.”

I looked up and saw James Larson standing there.

The words slipped out automatically. “Hey, didn’t expect to see you here.”

I struggled to steady my emotions, my arms instinctively opening—just like every time we used to meet, reaching for a hug.

But before I could take a step, a stunning woman appeared behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Honey, who’s she?”

I froze, awkwardly lowering my arms.

James’ face twisted with disdain as he sneered, “This is my gold-digging ex, Amelia Simmons.”

The woman gave me an artificial smile and held out her hand.

“So you’re Miss Simmons? I hear James mention you all the time.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lucy Miller, his wife.”

I stiffened but didn’t shake her hand. Instead, I gave James a blank nod.

Lucy grabbed my hand anyway—squeezing hard, nearly crushing my fingers.

Pain shot up my arm, my face contorting, but I didn’t make a sound.

James noticed something was off and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, biting back the pain as I glanced at my reddened fingers. “Nothing.”

Lucy finally let go, feigning innocence. “Oops, my bad. Forgot you’re sick.”

“I work out a lot—sometimes I don’t know my own strength.” She giggled, leaning into James.

James shot her an indulgent smile. “Enough. We’re in public.”

A sharp ache stabbed through my heart. I didn’t have the patience to watch them flaunt their love. Keeping my head down, I muttered, “I should go.”

“Thanks for the hospital bill. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

Then I turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

James, however, grabbed my arm, deliberately stopping me.

“Fifty thousand. How exactly do you plan to repay me?”

“With your barely two-thousand-a-month salary?”

I stiffened, unable to answer.

James towered over me, looking down with mockery in his eyes. “Want me to give you a way out?”

I forced a smile. “Sure.”

“Sell yourself.”

My fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. But my lips curled into a smirk.

“Got connections, Mr. Larson?”

James was momentarily stunned. “What?”

I chuckled. “Why let money leave the family?”

His expression darkened instantly. Rage flashed across his face as he raised his hand—then slapped me.

The sharp sting spread across my cheek, but the bitterness in my heart hurt even more.

Still, I kept my tone light, almost teasing. “Of course. For the right price, I’ll do anything.”

James let out a breath, eyes filled with disappointment and contempt.

“You haven’t changed a bit. Same selfish, soulless woman from eight years ago.”

“You want to humiliate yourself? Fine. Tomorrow, come to my club. I’ll introduce you to some ‘resources.’”

I nodded without hesitation.

Lucy shot me a smug look, then clung tighter to James.

“Honey, you don’t mean that, right?” she cooed. “Why not just treat the fifty grand as charity and let her have it?”

“You spend more than that on a pair of shoes, and a single watch of yours is worth over five million.”

James didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he picked up a pen, scribbled on a piece of paper, and tossed it at me.

Then, finally, he looked at her. “That’s different.”

“You’re my wife. She’s just a heartless ex.”

I picked up the paper, my fingers tightening involuntarily.

Fifty thousand. Due in one month.

The ink was still fresh, but it might as well have been a death sentence.