Those who don't love me, I don't want them anymore

Dawn crept in.

I woke early, as always.

The faint scent of medicine still lingered in the room—his post-surgery

smell that never seemed to fade.

On the bedside table sat a small bottle of heart medication. For five

years, I had made sure it was there, on time, every single day.

My phone screen lit up, flashing three missed calls from Lucas.

I didn’t answer.

His voice echoed in my head, that tone of entitlement I knew too well:

“Where’s my breakfast? Did you forget what you’re supposed to do?”

Outside, the sky was the color of ash.

I had once begged hospitals for donor lists, fallen to my knees for his

sake.

I would have given him my own heart if I could.

That year, when the doctor said the match was too low, I stood outside

the operating room, crying until I couldn’t breathe.

And now, he was alive and well—

ordering me around like I was a servant.

When the phone rang for the fourth time, I hung up.

A moment later, the door swung open.

Lucas strode in, anger shadowing his face.

“Are you trying to pick a fight with me? Don’t forget who you are.”

I didn’t reply.

I lifted my gaze to him, to the face I once knew better than my own.

But all I felt now was emptiness.

The heart I’d fought so hard to save was beating in his chest—

but it no longer belonged to me.

“Lucas,” I said quietly, my voice calm, almost cold.

“I won’t be making breakfast for you anymore. It’s time you learned how

to live on your own.”

He froze, then sneered.

“Learn to live? Don’t forget who saved me. If you weren’t my wife, I’d

be dead by now.”

I closed my fingers around the cup in my hand, lips curling into a

faint, bitter smile.

“Yes, I saved you. I just never realized every beat of your heart would

depend on someone else’s indifference.”

His eyes darkened.

Before he could respond, the sound of soft footsteps came from the

dining room.

Nova appeared, sauntering in.

Her silk nightgown shimmered under the morning light, every line of her

body steeped in intimacy.

“Oh, another round of the married couple drama?” she teased, leaning

against the doorframe. “Lucas, breakfast’s ready. I boiled eggs for you.

The doctor said your heart needs special care.”

I caught the emphasis on “heart,” and it felt like a blade twisting

through my chest.

My fingers tightened; I almost crushed the bowl in my hand.

“You should feel lucky,” I said with a sweet, venomous smile. “If you

hadn’t been so desperate to find a donor back then, Lucas wouldn’t even

be alive today. But it’s ironic, isn’t it? The heart you saved now beats

for someone else.”

The world seemed to freeze.

I could hear the kettle boiling, my own breath breaking into ragged

pieces.

The spoon slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the table, the sound

ringing sharp in the silence.

Lucas frowned, his voice hard. “That’s enough. Stop acting out.”

“Acting out?” I laughed, though my voice trembled. “I spent five years

taking care of you—begging doctors, begging for a match, staying up

through endless nights to feed you medicine. And the first thing you did

when you got better was bring another woman into our home.”

Nova tilted her head, utterly unfazed.

“Women who feel too much are sick,” she said lazily. “You should be glad

you still have time to take care of him. Without you, his heart might

not even be beating right now.”

“Enough!”

My voice cracked, tears shining in my eyes.

“Stop talking about that heart! I already gave it back to him. But my

own heart—”

I pressed a trembling hand to my chest—

“—died a long time ago.”