C01
On the eve of my wedding, my mother stumbled upon my fiancé and my best friend wrapped
in a betrayal so deep it shattered her heart.
The betrayal sent a shockwave through her fragile heart, triggering a relapse that left her
fighting for her life. She needed an immediate transplant.
Fortunately, I had already undergone compatibility testing with her. Without hesitation, I
gave her my heart, surviving on an artificial one.
Desperate to cover the overwhelming cost of the surgery, I turned to my fiancé for help.
He claimed he had no cash on hand, only to register his marriage with Rhea Dmitri the very
next day.
In the depths of my despair, Theodore Dmitri appeared like a lifeline. He covered every
expense and performed the surgery to save us both.
But when I woke, his expression was heavy with regret. His voice was soft, almost
apologetic. “Your mother… she suffered an unexpected rejection during the operation. The transplant failed.”
She was gone. Forever.
With swollen, tear–streaked eyes, I crumbled into his arms. He held me close, whispering his devotion, swearing to care for me for a lifetime. I believed him.
Seven years into our marriage, fate twisted the knife once more. A conversation I was never meant to hear shattered everything.
“So you swapped Faye Claude’s heart for Rhea’s right in front of her mother? That’s brutal.
“There was no other choice. Her heart was a perfect match for Rhea.”
“But they had already found a suitable donor. She only needed to wait half a day. Was it really that urgent?”
Theodore sighed, his voice laced with quiet longing. “I couldn’t bear to let Rhea suffer. Not
even for a second.”
Inside the study, just beyond a single door, Theodore exhaled a slow ring of smoke, his t
unreadable.
“If society’s rules kept me from marrying her, then the least I could do was protect Rhea for a lifetime.”
Dominic Wallace hesitated, his expression clouded with unease.
“But Faye has a rare blood type. Finding a compatible heart for her is nearly impossible. She’s been suffering from constant coughing fits and unbearable chest pain. And she can’t even
have children.”
KIKA
12:21 F, 31 Jan Mō ·
My Husband Stole My Heart and Killed My Mother
50%
भ
“Her artificial heart has only a month left before it fails,” he pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “She needs a real one now. Are you really going to make her endure endless surgeries and repeat this agony over and over? She loves you more than anything. Just give her heart back to her. You already have multiple backup donors lined up for Rhea.”
Theodore’s expression turned frigid in an instant. “No. The more backup donors I have, the
safer Rhea will be. I won’t take that risk. Not for anyone.”
Dominic’s chest tightened as a wave of frustration surged through him.
“What about Faye? I can still see her mother’s face, the way she wept blood as she died, consumed by hatred. Aren’t you afraid Faye will come for you once she learns the truth?”
Theodore went silent, then let out a low, self–mocking chuckle.
“If she wants my life, she can take it. I planned to care for her for the rest of my life anyway.
As long as Rhea is happy, I’ll die without regrets.”
My knuckles turned white as I clenched the doorknob, my entire body trembling, veins
straining beneath my skin.
Heart pounding, I fumbled for my phone, recording everything before fleeing to my bedroom, my legs nearly giving out beneath me.
The moment I shut the door, I collapsed to the floor, my breath ragged, my mind in chaos.
My body had never fully adapted to the artificial heart. Weakness clung to me like a shadow, coughing fits, sharp stabs of pain in my chest and limbs that barely obeyed me.
Back then, Theodore had told me a heart transplant required a living donor. My mother had
died, which meant there was no way to return what was stolen.
I had thought it didn’t matter so long as my heart could remain with my mother forever.
No wonder Theodore had stopped me when I begged to see her one last time, insisting I was
too weak to get out of bed after surgery. He had taken charge of her funeral, handling everything
himself.
So this so–called salvation, this supposed love, it was nothing but a sacrifice orchestrated
by a devil.
He had never even performed surgery on my mother.
Both of us had been nothing more than offerings for the woman he truly loved.
And to keep me from ever suspecting the truth, he had pushed my mother into the opera
room first, forcing her to watch, powerless, as her own daughter’s heart was torn from her chest
and placed inside another.
She had died in despair, crying blood.
