Wife’s Wish, Husband’s Wake

Two days after my diagnosis, I sat propped up in the hospital bed, my tablet balanced precariously on my lap. The board meeting couldn't wait, Ethan had insisted. Neither could my failing heart, but that seemed less important to him.

The faces of the board members filled my screen in a grid of concerned expressions. All except Ethan, who looked merely inconvenienced, his jaw tight as he guided the discussion about quarterly projections.

"As you can see from slide twenty-three," I explained, forcing strength into my voice, "we've exceeded our growth targets by seventeen percent in the Asian markets, which positions us perfectly for—"

The room suddenly tilted. The tablet slipped from my fingers as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. I clutched at my chest, feeling the now-familiar tearing sensation that meant my damaged heart was struggling.

"Charlotte?" David Chen's voice cut through the fog. "Charlotte, are you alright?"

I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present. The tablet had fallen sideways, giving the board members a disorienting view of the hospital ceiling.

"I'm fine," I lied, repositioning the device with trembling hands. "Just a small dizzy spell."

David's face filled my screen, his eyes narrowed with genuine concern. He was one of the few who remembered my contributions from the early days, before I became Ethan's shadow.

"You should rest," he said firmly. "This meeting can wait."

"No, it can't," Ethan interjected, his voice sharp. He glanced at someone off-camera. "Olivia can handle the investor calls scheduled for this afternoon. Charlotte, email her your notes before you... take a break."

The casual dismissal stung worse than the pain in my chest. I nodded mechanically, disconnecting from the call before anyone could see the tears welling in my eyes.

---

That evening, I watched the Metropolitan Museum Gala broadcast from my hospital bed. Dr. Sharma had insisted I stay after the episode during the board meeting, citing dangerous fluctuations in my heart rhythm.

"It's starting," Maria whispered, adjusting the television angle. My loyal housekeeper had brought me homemade soup and stayed to keep me company—something my husband couldn't be bothered to do.

The red carpet glittered with celebrities and tech moguls. Then the cameras swarmed, and there they were—Ethan in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, and Olivia draped against him in a shimmering gown that caught every light.

"Mr. Crawford!" called a reporter. "Where's your wife tonight?"

My breath caught. For a moment, I thought Ethan might acknowledge me, might say I was ill, might express even a hint of concern.

Olivia's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "Ethan is devoted to his work," she said smoothly, her hand possessively curled around his arm. "Tonight is about celebrating innovation, not personal matters."

The reporter nodded, satisfied with the non-answer that neither confirmed nor denied my existence. Ethan smiled down at Olivia, a private smile I once thought belonged only to me.

Maria squeezed my hand. "He doesn't deserve you, Mrs. Charlotte."

I couldn't disagree.

---

The call came at 9:47 PM. I had been drifting in and out of consciousness, my body growing weaker by the hour.

"Mrs. Mason?" Dr. Sharma's voice was urgent. "A heart has become available. It's a perfect match—blood type, size, tissue compatibility. We need to prep you for surgery immediately."

Hope surged through me, so powerful it almost hurt. "How long do we have?"

"The donor heart is viable for six hours. We need your husband's consent within the next four to complete all the paperwork and prep."

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers suddenly clumsy with desperation. Ethan's number rang and rang, each unanswered tone driving a spike of fear deeper into my chest.

"He's not answering," I whispered, panic rising. "Please, try again in a few minutes."

I tried texting: *Emergency. Need you at hospital NOW. Matter of life and death.*

No response.

Somewhere across Manhattan, in a SoHo loft with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, champagne glasses clinked. I could almost see it—Ethan raising a toast, Olivia at his side, her eyes never leaving his face as investors applauded their vision, their future.

My phone remained silent as the minutes ticked by, each one carrying away a fragment of my chance at survival.

The heart that could save me was waiting. So was I.

But Ethan never came.