My boyfriend Sheridan was in love with Royce, not me.

We were in our fourth year together when he demanded I donate my kidney to her.

I was silent for a moment, and his hand cracked across my face.

"That's your own sister, Royce. Don't be so selfish."

I forced a bitter smile.

What he didn't know was that my time was already running out.

————————

1

My parents called while I was with Sheridan at a Chelsea gallery opening.

Between champagne toasts, I excused myself.

I stepped outside to take the call.

"Come back to the Park Avenue penthouse tonight."

It was the first call in twenty years.

The commanding tone was still painfully familiar.

After hanging up, I sighed and returned to our VIP section.

When I pushed the door open, several art critics were toasting Sheridan.

"Mr. Valmont, you’re so wonderfully consistent. Your taste hasn't changed one bit over the years."

"This one has been with you the longest, and the resemblance is uncanny."

"Mr. Valmont, this woman you’ve handpicked… I’m sure in life, as in work, she must be…"

The voices died the moment I walked in.

At these events, there were always hushed jokes at my expense.

At first, I didn't understand.

I often asked Sheridan about it.

He'd glance up at me from a mountain of paperwork.

Then he’d stroke my head like I was a cherished pet.

"They’re just jealous. Pay them no mind, that’s exactly what they want."

I’d take a deep breath, believing him.

But sometimes, in the heat of the moment, he’d murmur things under his breath.

It broke my heart.

Unfortunately, I never again summoned the courage to confront him about it.

I held my tongue until the reception wound down.

Sheridan held my hand, but his expression seemed distant.

I glanced at the time.

"I'll drop you at the SoHo place, then I have to make a stop."

He frowned slightly and asked, "Where are you going?"

His face was flushed, and the alcohol was making him clingy.

I gave him a gentle kiss to soothe him.

"Take me with you. Wherever you go, I go. Don’t leave me by myself. I promise, I’ll be quiet and wait."

He looked at me with drowsy eyes, but his gaze seemed to pierce right through me, as if he were seeing someone else.

In the end, I relented and nodded.

I took him with me to my parents' house.

However, as the car pulled into the private driveway on Park Avenue, his mood visibly soured.

After we parked, I was going to have him wait in the car for a bit.

But before I could stop him, he got out.

I tried to grab him, but he was already striding into the penthouse building.

I scrambled after him.

My parents were already waiting for me.

Seeing them again after twenty years… words couldn’t capture the feeling.

I walked into the apartment.

I was about to say something.

But Sheridan spoke first, calling out, "Auntie Eleonora?"

I glanced at him silently.

My mother, Eleonora, was visibly excited too.

"Sheridan, you..."

Then she looked at me, standing behind him.

A look of understanding dawned on her face.

My parents didn't say anything, perhaps because Sheridan was there that day.

So, for the time being, they let me go.

However, when Sheridan returned to our apartment in SoHo, he seemed distracted.

That night, he was ferociously aggressive in bed.

He straddled me, fingertips tracing lazy circles on my chest, while his hips moved with a raw, undeniable force, as if trying to purge some unspoken emotion.

During one of his orgasms, I stroked his sweaty back and asked how he knew my family.

His eyes glazed over as he answered with a single word.

"Royce."

It caught me completely off guard.

In an instant, all my desire vanished.

My name is Reina Carrington, and Royce Carrington is my older sister.

For all these years, no one knew I came from the Carrington family.

After all, I was an unwanted child.

In my early years, I lived with my grandmother in a small town in upstate New York.

My parents sent me a fixed living allowance every month.

But they never initiated contact with me.

The official story was that they feared my sister would be hurt by their divided love.

Later, while I was still at NYU, my grandmother fell ill.

I had no choice.

I tried to contact them.

But they were unreachable.

Fortunately, I met Sheridan at the hospital while he was on an IV drip.

He froze when he saw me.

He was the one who approached me.

He struck up a conversation and offered his help.

In the end, he pulled me out of the darkness.

But my grandmother passed away.

Sheridan helped me arrange her funeral.

My parents never showed up.

I’d long since given up on them.

Naturally, Sheridan and I became lovers.

After graduation, I went to work directly at his gallery.

In the past, I didn't care how others made fun of me.

But today, hearing Sheridan say that name shattered the lie I’d been telling myself.

Later, Sheridan fell into a deep sleep.

I sat on the apartment's fire escape, staring at the Manhattan nightscape, and smoked all night.

The words I'd heard earlier echoed in my mind.

The resemblance between Royce and me is striking. We could be twins.

Most importantly, as a child, trying to win my parents' attention, I had meticulously copied Royce's mannerisms.

As a result, even I started to lose track of where she ended and I began.

I huddled on the cold iron escape all night.

I tried to comfort myself.

I told myself the world is a big place, full of people named Royce.

How could it be a coincidence that she just so happened to be my sister?

After comforting myself, I felt much better.

Then I got up early to make breakfast for Sheridan.

He stumbled out, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

I subconsciously moved to hug him.

But he turned away, impatience etched in his furrowed brow.

A lump formed in my throat.

In the end, I said nothing.

We ate breakfast in a silence heavier than any we'd known before.

I wanted to say something.

But Sheridan's cold gaze silenced me.

After eating, Sheridan picked up his bag.

"I'm meeting an important artist today. Go to the gallery on your own."

I managed a "Mhm," but he was already out the door before I could say more.

At noon, I left half an hour early.

I went to Mount Sinai Hospital to pick up my latest test results.

In college, my eating habits were very irregular.

I barely ate more than one meal a day.

After graduation, my stomach was always bothering me.

And, my already poor appetite had recently gotten worse.

I'd lost five pounds in a week.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

But that was nothing compared to the abyss that opened up when I read the report.

I felt hopeless.

Terminal stomach cancer.

It was inoperable.

I clutched the report tightly.

I felt adrift in the sterile, silent hospital corridors.

I didn't know who to share this news with.

I picked up my phone, then put it down again.

I am twenty-four years old.

My life has never been smooth sailing.

It felt like God was playing a cruel joke on me.

I sat distractedly on a hospital bench.

For a moment, I considered just... ending it.

But what about Sheridan?

He can't cook, and I'm the one who picks out all his clothes.

At social functions, he's always forced to drink.

Every time he drinks too much, he throws up.

Then he lies on top of me like a cat.

The next day he'll have a headache.

Who will make him the spaghetti bolognese he loves?

I once thought I was all alone, with no one to worry about.

But in that moment, I realized.

Sheridan was my only anchor in this world.

What would he do if I died?

I sighed.

My time was running out.

My thoughts were consumed with worry for the man I loved.

I stood up, ready to go home.

I turned to leave, but a flash of movement in my peripheral vision stopped me.

It was Sheridan.

My heart tightened.

What was he doing at the hospital? Was he sick?

Just as I was thinking this, I saw Royce following closely behind him, emerging from the VIP ward.

Whatever she said, it made him collapse into her arms, burying his face in the thin fabric of her hospital gown.

I stood frozen for a second before bolting down the stairs.

By the time I reached the ground floor, I was breathless.

The sharp cramps in my stomach were becoming unbearable.

I drove home.

My mind was a mess.

I tried to busy my hands to quiet my mind, so I cooked. A feast.

All of Sheridan's favorites, including that spaghetti bolognese.

I kept myself busy.

It was already 5 o'clock when I called Sheridan.

But he didn't pick up.

I sat at the dining table.

I stubbornly waited for Sheridan's return.

Seven o'clock.

He finally came home.

I stood up instinctively to help him with his coat.

He flinched, just slightly, and my stomach dropped. Something was wrong.

"Where were you today?"

My voice came out hoarse from disuse.

His eyes were slightly red as he glanced at the food on the table.

"I didn't know you were cooking. Let me heat it up."

"No need. I've already had dinner."

His tone was icy. "And you don't have to bother doing this anymore."

Then he walked into the study without another word.

I lowered my head.

I sat alone in the dining room.

The ache in my heart quickly eclipsed the fire in my gut.

In four years, Sheridan had never been this cold.

He stayed in the study all night.

And I didn't sleep a wink either.

The next day, he packed his Rimowa suitcase.

After that, Sheridan didn't come home for several days.

He didn't go to the gallery either.

Neither did I.

My stomach pain was becoming more and more unbearable.

I took time off and stayed home.

Not a single phone call.

One day, Sheridan's gallery manager called me.

She asked if I could retrieve an auction catalog from Sheridan's West Village townhouse.

She said it was in his study.

It was the first time I had ever entered Sheridan's study.

He was fiercely private about his personal space, even handling the cleaning himself.

I found the document the manager needed.

I was about to leave.

But I caught sight of a photograph out of the corner of my eye.

Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to leave it alone. I couldn't.

I walked over and picked up the photo.

In it, Sheridan and Royce stood side-by-side on the lawn at their Columbia University graduation.

The dappled light from the trees veiled them, making them look like a perfect, fated couple. Each beat of my heart was a fresh stab of pain.

Underneath the photo was a wooden box.

It must have been an old box.

Its surface was worn smooth with age.

I picked it up and slowly opened it.

A morbid curiosity warred with the dread of confirming my deepest fears.

Inside the box, I saw many photos and mementos documenting Sheridan and Royce's time from their college days to vacations in the Hamptons.

There were some small trinkets as well.

It was then that all the whispered rumors clicked into place. It had all been true. I was the only one who hadn't seen it.

Now I finally understood.

I finally understood the look in Sheridan's eyes when he looked at me.

That explained the melancholy in his eyes. Why he’d paid my grandmother’s medical bills after a single glance. Why he’d chosen me…

I carefully returned everything to its place. It was the last shred of dignity I could afford myself.

Sheridan never came home again.

There was no need to guess.

He was undoubtedly staying at the hospital.

That way, he could take better care of Royce.

I learned this from his gallery manager.

He hadn't been to the office; he had been handling work from the hospital these days.

I listened to the manager's report.

Then I couldn't help but laugh at myself.

I, who was supposed to be his partner, was now learning about his life secondhand. The irony was bitter.

It was time to end this farce.

Early in the morning, my mother, Eleonora, called me.

She told me to come home, alone.

But I didn't expect what happened next.

As soon as I arrived home, my parents got a call from the hospital.

We sped to the hospital in a black town car.

The doctors were giving Royce emergency treatment.

Sheridan was there too.

When he saw me, he avoided my gaze.

I pressed my lips together and chose to remain silent.

Eleonora was sobbing uncontrollably.

"Why does my daughter have to suffer like this?

"What did I do wrong?"

Then, she turned to me, her eyes filled with rage and resentment.

"Reina, why isn't it you lying in there?"

A weak, bitter smile touched my lips. Yeah, I thought. Why didn't I die sooner?

I tentatively glanced at Sheridan.

He was looking worriedly at Royce inside the hospital room.

He didn't spare me a single glance.

I laughed at myself.

But my eyes burned.

I once thought he was my salvation. Turns out, I was just a stand-in. A ghost he looked at to see another woman's face.