Two days after my diagnosis, I sat propped up in the hospital bed, my tablet balanced precariously on my lap. The board meeting couldn't wait, Ethan had insisted. Neither could my failing heart, but that seemed less important to him.

The faces of the board members filled my screen in a grid of concerned expressions. All except Ethan, who looked merely inconvenienced, his jaw tight as he guided the discussion about quarterly projections.

"As you can see from slide twenty-three," I explained, forcing strength into my voice, "we've exceeded our growth targets by seventeen percent in the Asian markets, which positions us perfectly for—"

The room suddenly tilted. The tablet slipped from my fingers as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. I clutched at my chest, feeling the now-familiar tearing sensation that meant my damaged heart was struggling.

"Charlotte?" David Chen's voice cut through the fog. "Charlotte, are you alright?"

I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present. The tablet had fallen sideways, giving the board members a disorienting view of the hospital ceiling.

"I'm fine," I lied, repositioning the device with trembling hands. "Just a small dizzy spell."

David's face filled my screen, his eyes narrowed with genuine concern. He was one of the few who remembered my contributions from the early days, before I became Ethan's shadow.

"You should rest," he said firmly. "This meeting can wait."

"No, it can't," Ethan interjected, his voice sharp. He glanced at someone off-camera. "Olivia can handle the investor calls scheduled for this afternoon. Charlotte, email her your notes before you... take a break."

The casual dismissal stung worse than the pain in my chest. I nodded mechanically, disconnecting from the call before anyone could see the tears welling in my eyes.

---

That evening, I watched the Metropolitan Museum Gala broadcast from my hospital bed. Dr. Sharma had insisted I stay after the episode during the board meeting, citing dangerous fluctuations in my heart rhythm.

"It's starting," Maria whispered, adjusting the television angle. My loyal housekeeper had brought me homemade soup and stayed to keep me company—something my husband couldn't be bothered to do.

The red carpet glittered with celebrities and tech moguls. Then the cameras swarmed, and there they were—Ethan in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, and Olivia draped against him in a shimmering gown that caught every light.

"Mr. Crawford!" called a reporter. "Where's your wife tonight?"

My breath caught. For a moment, I thought Ethan might acknowledge me, might say I was ill, might express even a hint of concern.

Olivia's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "Ethan is devoted to his work," she said smoothly, her hand possessively curled around his arm. "Tonight is about celebrating innovation, not personal matters."

The reporter nodded, satisfied with the non-answer that neither confirmed nor denied my existence. Ethan smiled down at Olivia, a private smile I once thought belonged only to me.

Maria squeezed my hand. "He doesn't deserve you, Mrs. Charlotte."

I couldn't disagree.

---

The call came at 9:47 PM. I had been drifting in and out of consciousness, my body growing weaker by the hour.

"Mrs. Mason?" Dr. Sharma's voice was urgent. "A heart has become available. It's a perfect match—blood type, size, tissue compatibility. We need to prep you for surgery immediately."

Hope surged through me, so powerful it almost hurt. "How long do we have?"

"The donor heart is viable for six hours. We need your husband's consent within the next four to complete all the paperwork and prep."

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers suddenly clumsy with desperation. Ethan's number rang and rang, each unanswered tone driving a spike of fear deeper into my chest.

"He's not answering," I whispered, panic rising. "Please, try again in a few minutes."

I tried texting: *Emergency. Need you at hospital NOW. Matter of life and death.*

No response.

Somewhere across Manhattan, in a SoHo loft with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, champagne glasses clinked. I could almost see it—Ethan raising a toast, Olivia at his side, her eyes never leaving his face as investors applauded their vision, their future.

My phone remained silent as the minutes ticked by, each one carrying away a fragment of my chance at survival.

The heart that could save me was waiting. So was I.

But Ethan never came.

The hospital room's clock ticked mercilessly as I watched another precious minute slip away. Four hours had passed since Dr. Sharma's call about the matching heart. Four hours of unanswered calls and desperate texts to Ethan. Four hours closer to death.

My trembling fingers scrolled through my contacts, landing on David Chen's name. He had been with us from the beginning, before I became invisible. Before Ethan forgot I existed.

"Charlotte?" His voice was thick with sleep when he answered. "Is everything alright?"

"David, I'm sorry to wake you." My voice cracked. "I need your help. There's a heart for me—a perfect match—but the window is closing. I can't reach Ethan, and I need his consent for the surgery."

"Where is he?" The rustle of bedsheets came through the line as David immediately sat up.

"At Olivia's celebration in SoHo. The rooftop bar at The Loft." I hated how pathetic I sounded, begging someone else to find my husband. "Please, David. I have less than two hours left."

"I'm on my way there now." The determination in his voice gave me a flicker of hope. "Hold on, Charlotte. Just hold on."

I clutched the phone to my chest after he hung up, willing my damaged heart to keep beating just a little longer. The monitors beeped steadily, mocking my desperation with their mechanical calm.

Dr. Sharma appeared in the doorway, her face carefully composed, but I could read the concern in her eyes. "Any word from your husband?"

I shook my head. "A friend is trying to find him."

She nodded, checking my vitals with practiced efficiency. "We'll prep you anyway. Be ready when—if—he calls."

If. The word hung between us like a death sentence.

---

The morning light filtered through the penthouse windows as Maria set down a tray beside my bed. After the heart went to another patient, Dr. Sharma had reluctantly discharged me with a cocktail of medications to manage my symptoms. "Until another match is found," she'd said, though we both knew the chances were vanishingly small.

"You should eat something, Mrs. Charlotte." Maria's gentle voice carried the weight of maternal concern as she arranged toast and tea on the bedside table.

I struggled to sit up, each movement sending ripples of pain through my chest. "Thank you, Maria."

She watched me pick at the toast, her weathered hands twisting her apron. "Mr. Ethan called. He said he'll be home late again tonight."

Of course he would. He hadn't even noticed he'd missed my calls last night—calls that could have saved my life.

"The doctor called too," I said quietly. "The transplant window closed at 3 AM. The heart went to someone else."

Maria's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Mrs. Charlotte..."

"Dr. Sharma says I have three days. Maybe less." The words felt surreal leaving my lips. "Three days, and Ethan doesn't even know."

Maria suddenly pulled her phone from her pocket, thrusting it toward me with unexpected force. "Call her."

"Who?"

"That woman. Miss Olivia." Maria's normally gentle face hardened. "She has his attention. Make her tell him."

I stared at the phone, considering the suggestion. The thought of begging Olivia for help made bile rise in my throat, but what choice did I have?

With shaking fingers, I typed a message I never thought I'd send:

*Olivia, this is Charlotte, Ethan's wife. I'm dying. Three days left. Please tell him to come home. Please.*

I hit send before I could change my mind, then handed the phone back to Maria. "Thank you."

She nodded, squeezing my hand. "Rest now, Mrs. Charlotte. I'll be right outside."

As she left, my own phone chimed with a notification. With a bitter laugh, I opened Instagram to see what was so important it deserved an alert.

There they were—Ethan and Olivia, champagne glasses raised high at what appeared to be a brunch celebration. The caption read: "Pre-IPO celebrations with the visionary @EthanCrawford! #FutureBillionaire #TechPower"

Olivia's perfect smile gleamed as she leaned into my husband, her hand possessively placed on his chest—right over his heart. The timestamp showed it had been posted three minutes ago.

As I stared at their radiant faces, my phone began to fill with notifications of missed calls from the hospital. Calls Ethan would never see, buried under the avalanche of congratulations flooding his social media.

I closed my eyes, feeling the damaged pieces of my heart breaking in an entirely different way. Three days left, and the man I gave everything to was celebrating a future I wouldn't live to see.