Spare Part Wife: Liver For His Mistress

Jada didn't think. She moved on instinct. She grabbed her purse from the entry table-the one she had dropped the night before-knowing she kept a stash of emergency cash in the lining.

She ran to the heavy oak door. Her hand gripped the cold brass handle. She turned it.

It turned.

Freedom.

She threw the door open and stepped out into the hallway, ready to sprint to the stairwell. She wouldn't take the elevator. She would run down forty-five flights if she had to.

"Good morning, Mrs. Long."

Jada skidded to a halt.

Two men stood by the elevator banks. They were massive, dressed in black suits that strained against their biceps. They weren't building security. They were private contractors.

One of them, a man with a shaved head and a scar through his eyebrow, stepped forward. He was polite, but his body language was a wall.

"Mr. Long mentioned you might try to leave, Ma'am," he said. His voice was flat. "He asked us to ensure you stay inside for your own safety."

Jada stared at them. The hallway stretched out behind them, empty and tantalizing.

"I'm not a prisoner," she said, trying to inject authority into her voice. "I am a free citizen. Get out of my way."

"We can't do that, Ma'am," the man said. He crossed his arms. "Please go back inside."

Jada looked at the stairwell door. It was ten feet away. Could she make it?

The second guard shifted, blocking the path to the stairs. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her.

The fight drained out of her. She was five foot six. They were giants. And they were paid by Darius Long.

Defeated, Jada stepped back into the penthouse and slammed the door shut. She leaned her forehead against the wood, hot tears of frustration leaking from her eyes.

She paced the living room for hours, feeling like a trapped animal. The silence was deafening.

Around noon, she sat on the sofa and saw something wedged between the cushions. An iPad. Darius's old one.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up. Passcode required.

She typed in her birthday. Incorrect.

She typed in their anniversary. Incorrect.

She paused. Her fingers hovered over the glass. She typed in 0614. June 14th. The day Hazel was diagnosed with liver failure three years ago.

Unlock.

The home screen appeared. Jada felt a wave of nausea. He used the date of her illness as his password. It was a shrine.

She opened Instagram. Her fingers trembled. She didn't want to look, but she couldn't stop herself.

She searched for Hazel Lawrence.

The profile was public. Of course it was. Hazel loved an audience.

A new story had been posted ten minutes ago.

Jada tapped the circle.

The image filled the screen. It was a close-up of two hands. One was pale, delicate, with an IV line taped to the back of the wrist. The other was large, masculine, gripping the smaller hand tightly. On the wrist of the man's hand sat a Patek Philippe watch with a distinctive blue dial.

Jada stopped breathing. She had bought that watch for Darius for his thirtieth birthday. She had engraved the back: For every second of our forever.

The caption overlaid on the photo was written in a swirling, elegant font:

He always comes when I call. My hero. Blessed Survivor TrueLoveNeverDies

Jada threw the iPad onto the couch as if it were contaminated. She ran to the bathroom and dry heaved over the toilet.

He was there. Holding her hand. While Jada was locked in his tower by his goons.

Hours passed. The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows turned from gray to black.

The front door opened.

Jada was curled up in the armchair in the corner of the living room, the lights off. She was invisible in the shadows.

Darius walked in. He looked exhausted. His tie was gone, his collar unbuttoned. He was on the phone.

"Expedite the legal review, Harrison," he was saying, his voice rough. "I want the liability waivers bulletproof. If anything goes wrong on the table, the hospital needs to be indemnified completely."

Jada held her breath.

"Yes," Darius continued, walking to the bar cart. "Pay the hospital board whatever they want to clear the OR schedule. I want the best team."

He paused, listening.

"Jada?" He sighed. "She'll comply. She has no choice. I have the leverage."

He poured himself a whiskey. The clink of the crystal decanter against the glass was loud in the dark room.

"It's just a liver segment, Harrison. It grows back. She's being dramatic. She'll get over it once the check clears."

The callousness of his tone cut deeper than the knife she had held earlier. She's being dramatic.

Jada stood up. "Is that all I am?"

Darius jumped, spilling a drop of amber liquid onto his hand. He spun around, peering into the darkness.

"You're awake," he said, composing himself instantly.

Jada stepped into the moonlight filtering through the window. "A regenerating asset. That's all I am to you."

Darius didn't apologize. He took a sip of his drink. "I saw the post," Jada said, her voice dead. "She enjoyed that. Posting your hand. Tagging it 'True Love.'"

Darius sighed, rubbing his temples. "She's sick, Jada. She's scared. Social media is her way of coping. Stop competing with a dying woman."

"I'm not competing," Jada said. She walked past him toward the guest room. "I'm quitting."

"What does that mean?" Darius called after her.

Jada didn't answer. She walked into the guest room and locked the door.