I still remember that day when I rushed home, eager to tell Samuel the good news about my kidney being a match.
As for the ultrasound confirming my pregnancy, I had already torn it to pieces and tossed it in the trash.
For the man I loved, I had made my choice.
I would secretly terminate the pregnancy and proceed with the transplant surgery.
But the moment I stepped through the door, what awaited me was Samuel lying in a pool of blood.
A handwritten suicide note sat on the table.
He wrote that he couldn’t bear to watch the girl he loved wither away.
He refused to drag me into debt just to prolong his suffering and ruin my chances to have a good life.
He mentioned because he loved me more than he loved himself, he chose to end it—slitting his wrists so that both of us could be freed from this misery.
Samuel’s condition was severe.
Even with a transplant, the doctors warned there was no guarantee he’d fully recover, and having children in the future would be nearly impossible.
This was his way of protecting me.
It was his final, desperate choice.
I sobbed as I rushed him to the emergency room.
When he finally woke up, I slapped him across the face.
“Samuel Shaw, I’ve been wanting to divorce you for a long time! You really think I’m that stupid? That I’d willingly spend my life suffering with you?
“Don’t you dare use suicide to guilt trip me! I’m not falling for it!”
I lied.
I told him I was working at a bar and already hooked up with a rich heir.
I would never forget the look on his face—shattered, hollow.
It was the second time I ever saw Samuel cry.
The first was at his parents’ funeral.
He signed the divorce papers and told me I was free.
It wasn’t until I left the hospital and got into a cab that I finally broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
If I hadn’t done it this way, Samuel would have never accepted my kidney.
So, I hid away and gave birth to my son.
My body had barely recovered before I was back on the operating table.
Just before death could take him, I saved Samuel.
…
That night, memories of the past haunted me in my sleep.
In my nightmare, the one lying in a pool of blood wasn’t Samuel—it was my son.
I woke up in a cold sweat, drained in every way, but I still had to go to work.
Giving birth and immediately undergoing kidney transplant surgery had left my body severely weakened.
If not for my best friend, Rachel Song, who managed a hotel and took me in, offering me a stable job and extra care, I might not have even had this opportunity.
That was why I cherished my job so much.
Tonight, the hotel was fully booked for a private birthday party.
I was swamped with work when the supervisor rushed over, out of breath.
