The Fiancée Who Stole My Kidney

Donny Bradshaw POV:

I gave myself one night to fall apart. The next morning, I woke up on the floor of the living room, surrounded by the ghosts of a life that was never really mine. The decision was cold and clear in my mind. It was over. Truly over.

A marriage built on such a deep, calculated betrayal was a prison sentence. Letting her go wasn't just for her benefit; it was my only path to freedom.

I picked up my phone and dialed her number. The first call went to voicemail. The second rang and rang until it timed out. My thumb hovered over the screen, my anger mixing with a pathetic, residual hope that she would just pick up and say it was all a horrible mistake.

On the third try, someone answered.

"Hello?"

It wasn't Diane. It was a man's voice, lazy and arrogant. A voice I recognized from the society pages and Diane' s old college stories.

Eugene Crosby.

"Who is this?" he asked, a bored edge to his tone.

A fire ignited in my gut. He knew damn well who this was. He was enjoying this, the son of a bitch. "I need to speak to Diane," I said, my voice tight.

"She's a little busy right now," he drawled. I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Can I take a message?"

I was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his message when I heard shuffling on the other end. "Give me the phone, Eugene," Diane' s voice, muffled but sharp, came through.

I squeezed the phone, my knuckles turning white. The image of them together, of him answering her phone like he owned it, like he owned her, made me physically sick.

"Donny?" she asked, her voice clear now.

I took a deep, shaky breath. "We need to get a divorce."

There was a pause. I heard a faint rustling, as if she was moving to a different room. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me," I said, my voice gaining strength. "I'm not going to be your backup plan, your safety net. You made your choice. I'm making mine. I want a divorce."

"Donny, this is ridiculous," she snapped, her tone shifting from surprise to anger. "You can't be serious."

I walked over to the mantel and picked up the last remaining photo of us-one from a vacation two years ago, our faces tanned and happy. We looked like strangers.

"I am serious, Diane," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I'm giving you exactly what you want. A clean break. You get to be with him. And I get to be free of you."

I heard her let out a heavy sigh, a sound of pure frustration. "You're just hurt. You had major surgery, you're not thinking clearly. This is a cruel thing to do right now."

I almost laughed. The audacity of her, calling me cruel. "A cruel thing to do? Is that a joke?"

"Donny, stop this. You're not yourself."

"No," I said, my gaze fixed on her smiling face in the photograph. "For the first time in three years, I think I am."

I hung up before she could reply.

Darkness fell, but I didn't turn on any lights. I sat in the silent house, the glowing screen of my phone offering the only illumination. I smoked one cigarette, then another, letting the acrid smoke fill my lungs.

My eyes landed on our wedding portrait hanging on the wall. It was a huge, professionally shot photo from our engagement party. We were beaming, the picture of happiness. It was a lie. All of it.

With a steady hand, I brought the burning end of my cigarette up to the photograph. I pressed it against Diane's smiling face. The canvas sizzled and began to brown. A tiny orange ember glowed, then, with a soft whoosh, a small flame flickered to life.

It grew quickly, eating away at her perfect smile, turning our happy memory to black ash. The fire was the only light in the room, a warm, destructive glow where her face used to be. And in that moment, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.