His Wife, His Death Sentence

Name: His Wife, His Death Sentence
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Gavin

Romance | Completed

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Today was my fifth wedding anniversary. It was also the day a doctor told me I had, at most, three months left to live. My single remaining kidney was failing, a complication from the surgery where I gave my other kidney to my wife, Senator Eleanor Horton. Then I saw her, walking out of the Capitol building, not alone. She was with Hudson Stewart, her college sweetheart, and he kissed her, a long, deep kiss, right there on the steps. Later, Hudson found me, offering five million dollars to disappear. He looked at me with contempt, like I was something he' d scraped off his shoe. I remembered overhearing Eleanor tell Hudson, "It's not love. It's... gratitude. A responsibility." My love was a commodity, my sacrifice a transaction. A sharp pain shot through my side. My phone buzzed. A text from Hudson: a picture of him and Eleanor in my bed, captioned, She's mine now. Always was. I was Jefferson Byrd, a kid from foster care, who had loved her for ten years, since I saved her life with my kidney. I thought her gratitude had turned into love. I was a fool. My phone rang. It was Eleanor, her voice fake, promising a surprise. Then I heard Hudson's voice, and a kiss. The line went dead. Any last, stupid flicker of hope I had died with it.

Betrayal Revenge CEO Drama Transactional love

Chapter 21

11-04 07:19

Chapter 1

Today was my fifth wedding anniversary. It was also the day a doctor told me I had, at most, three months left to live.

My single remaining kidney was failing, a complication from the surgery where I gave my other kidney to my wife, Senator Eleanor Horton.

Then I saw her, walking out of the Capitol building, not alone. She was with Hudson Stewart, her college sweetheart, and he kissed her, a long, deep kiss, right there on the steps.

Later, Hudson found me, offering five million dollars to disappear. He looked at me with contempt, like I was something he' d scraped off his shoe.

I remembered overhearing Eleanor tell Hudson, "It's not love. It's... gratitude. A responsibility." My love was a commodity, my sacrifice a transaction.

A sharp pain shot through my side. My phone buzzed. A text from Hudson: a picture of him and Eleanor in my bed, captioned, She's mine now. Always was.

I was Jefferson Byrd, a kid from foster care, who had loved her for ten years, since I saved her life with my kidney. I thought her gratitude had turned into love. I was a fool.

My phone rang. It was Eleanor, her voice fake, promising a surprise.

Then I heard Hudson's voice, and a kiss. The line went dead.

Any last, stupid flicker of hope I had died with it.

Chapter 1

Today was my fifth wedding anniversary. It was also the day a doctor told me I had, at most, three months left to live.

The single kidney I had left, the one I'd lived on for five years, was failing. It was a complication from the surgery. The surgery where I gave my other kidney to the woman I loved, my wife, Senator Eleanor Horton.

I sat in my car, the medical report sat like a tombstone on the passenger seat. I had given up my art, my passion, for her. I gave up my health. I thought that was what love was.

Then I saw her. She was walking out of the Capitol building, not alone. She was with Hudson Stewart, a lobbyist whose family was as powerful as hers. He was her college sweetheart, the man everyone thought she should have married.

He pulled her close, and she didn't resist. He kissed her, a possessive, claiming kiss right there on the steps of the Capitol.

My world shattered. The physical pain in my side was nothing compared to the pain in my chest.

Later that evening, Hudson Stewart found me at the small bar I went to when I needed to think. He slid onto the stool next to me. He looked perfect, in his tailored suit, smelling of expensive cologne.

"Byrd," he said, his voice smooth. "Eleanor feels bad about you."

He slid a check across the bar. It was for five million dollars.

"Take this," he said. "Disappear. Leave her alone. It's the best thing for everyone."

He looked at me with contempt, like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe. The humiliation was a physical thing, hot and suffocating.

I stared at the check, then at him, my mind a vortex of the doctor's words and the image of his kiss. The years of sacrifice flashed before my eyes. I said nothing.

Hudson smirked, clearly enjoying my stunned silence. He interpreted it as the weakness of a beaten man.

"I'll give you a week to think it over," he said, his voice dripping with condescending magnanimity. "But don't take too long. A man in your condition doesn't have much time for indecision."

With a final, dismissive glance, he plucked the check from the bar and slid it back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The offer had been made; the symbol of my worthlessness was put away.

"If I don't hear from you, I'll assume that's a 'no,'" he added, standing up and adjusting his tie. "And things will get... unpleasant."

He walked away, leaving me with the ghost of a five-million-dollar offer and the bitter taste of my own life.

I laughed, a dry, empty sound. I sacrificed my career as an artist, a life I loved, to support her political ambitions. I gave her my kidney when hers failed, tying my life to hers in the most permanent way I could imagine. And this was the price of it all. An offer to erase myself for five million dollars.

My mind drifted back. Back to a few weeks ago, at a political gala. I was standing in the shadows, as usual, while Eleanor shone in the spotlight. I wasn't feeling well, a familiar ache pulsing in my side. I slipped onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

I heard their voices before I saw them. Eleanor and Hudson.

"You can't keep torturing him, Hud," Eleanor said. Her voice was strained. "He gave me a kidney. I owe him."

"Owe him?" Hudson's laugh was cruel. "You gave him five years of a life he could never have dreamed of. You don't owe him anything. You don't love him, Ellie. You never have."

There was a long silence. I held my breath.

"I know," she finally whispered. The words were quiet, but they hit me like a physical blow. "It's not love. It's... gratitude. A responsibility. But I can't just throw him away."

"You have to," Hudson insisted. "He's a stain on your image. A working-class artist. My God, what was your father thinking, letting you marry him?"

Gratitude. Not love.

The memory faded, and the cold reality of the bar came rushing back. The past five years, I had been a duty. An obligation. A debt to be paid.

My phone buzzed. A text from Hudson. It was a picture. Him and Eleanor, in our bed. Her head was on his shoulder, and they were both smiling. The caption read: She's mine now. Always was.

I stared at the screen until the image blurred. A single tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, hot and shameful.

I let it fall.

She was a Horton. A dynasty, like the Kennedys. I was Jefferson Byrd, a kid who grew up in foster care. We were never meant to be.

But I had loved her for ten years. Since the day I, a struggling artist, found her collapsed on a rainy street, her body wracked with pain from her failing kidneys. I took her to the hospital. When they said she needed a transplant, and that I was a match, I didn't hesitate.

I gave her my kidney. I gave her my life.

She recovered. She was so grateful. She held my hand and said she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

She asked me to marry her.

I thought her gratitude had turned into love. I thought she saw me, Jefferson, not just the man who saved her.

I was a fool.

My love was a commodity she used up and discarded. My sacrifice was just a transaction.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my side, making me gasp. It was happening more often now. I fumbled in my pocket for the bottle of painkillers the doctor had given me. I dry-swallowed two, waiting for the dull ache to subside. My body was a ticking clock.

My phone rang. It was Eleanor.

"Jeff, darling," she said, her voice bright and cheerful, completely fake. "Don't go to bed yet. I have a surprise for you when I get home. A little anniversary present."

The irony was so thick I could taste it.

I hung up and turned on the small TV above the bar. A local news channel was on. There she was, on the screen, giving an interview outside a charity event.

"My husband, Jefferson, is my rock," she said to the camera, a perfect, practiced smile on her face. "His unwavering support is the reason I can do what I do. I'm the luckiest woman in the world."

The performance was flawless. America loved her. They saw a brilliant, compassionate leader. I saw a stranger.

I felt a sudden, desperate urge. One last try. I called her back.

"Eleanor," I said, my voice hoarse. "Can you just... come home? Now?"

"I'm on my way, darling. Just finishing up here." Her voice was distant. Then, I heard it. A man's voice in the background, low and intimate. Hudson's voice. And then, a sound that made my stomach clench. The sound of a kiss.

"I have to go, Jeff. See you soon."

She hung up.

The line went dead. Any last, stupid flicker of hope I had died with it.

The pain in my side exploded, a white-hot fire. It wasn't just the kidney anymore. It was everything. The betrayal, the lies, the years of wasted love. I doubled over, gasping for air, the world spinning.

The doctor's words echoed in my head. Renal failure. Terminal. Three months.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaking. I sent a text to Hudson Stewart.

I'll take your offer. I want the check. Tonight.