Chapter 4

Lawrence sat beside her, and she immediately moved closer. A moment later, she was sitting on his lap as if that had always been her place.

“Careful,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Your stitches are still healing. Don't move around too much.”

Dad chuckled behind the camera. “You two are getting close.”

Mom laughed too. “Lorinne finally has someone who really takes care of her.”

No one corrected them.

No one said, “He's Stella's husband.”

No one seemed to remember that I was lying in an ICU bed, fighting to breathe while my husband was holding another woman.

Then another video arrived.

Lorinne was holding my old music box.

It was the little wooden one Mom had given me when I was eight. She bought it after I won my first school singing competition, and I used to wind it every night before bed. The paint was chipped around the edges, but I'd kept it with me through every house I'd lived in.

Lorinne turned it over in her hands and giggled. “This thing is so old. Why did Stella even keep it?”

Lawrence barely glanced at it. “If you don't like it, throw it away.”

Dad reached for the music box. “Here. I'll take care of it.”

He dropped it straight into a trash bag.

I watched that part three times.

Then I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling.

That stupid little music box had stayed with me when everyone else left.

And now even that was gone.

Then the messages started coming.

“Stella, I don’t think your mom ever really liked you. She seems so much happier now. Honestly, I feel bad for you.”

Another came a few minutes later.

“Your dad says you’ve always been too sensitive. Maybe you should stop making everything about yourself.”

Then another.

“You should apologize to Lawrence properly. He works so hard for this family, and you embarrassed him in front of everyone.”

I stared at the screen until my eyes started hurting. My own family was talking about me as if I were some spoiled stranger who had ruined their perfect little life.

Then Lorinne sent another message.

“Lawrence took me to the balcony tonight. He said I deserve some peace after everything I’ve survived.”

There was a photo attached. She was resting against Lawrence’s chest while his arms were wrapped around her. My parents were sitting nearby, smiling at them.

They looked happy. Comfortable. Like this was exactly how things were supposed to be.

Then she sent another clip.

This time, it was from my bedroom.

I watched only long enough to understand what was happening before I threw the phone onto the mattress. Lorinne was in my room with Lawrence, and the sounds between them made it painfully obvious what they were doing.

My husband was in our bedroom with my cousin.

My heart monitor immediately started beeping faster. I covered my mouth and tried to breathe through the oxygen mask, but my chest felt tighter with every breath.

How much more was I supposed to take?

Was I really expected to lie here quietly while they erased me from my own life?

My hands were shaking when I reached for my phone again. I opened my social media account and changed my name to Stella Waiting for a Lung.

Then I uploaded everything.

My diagnosis.

My medical records.

Proof that a matching pair of donor lungs had been redirected.

The messages.

The videos.

The screenshots.

I didn’t hide their names.

Then I started typing.

“There was a matching donor. The lungs could have saved me, but they were given to someone else. My husband approved it. My mother signed the paperwork, and my father supported the decision. I was told to understand.”

I stopped for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then I typed again.

“What kind of family decides their biological daughter matters less than the orphan cousin they brought into the family and expected me to treat as a sister? And now that same cousin has taken my husband while I’m lying in an ICU bed fighting for my life.”

I read it twice before pressing post.

I didn’t know what would happen after that.

...

Three hours later, my ICU door slammed open.

Lawrence walked in first. His hair was messy, his suit was slightly disordered, and his face was tight with anger. My mother and father followed behind him.

“Stella!” His voice was low, but I could hear the fury underneath it. “What the hell did you post? Do you have any idea what you’ve started?”

Before I could answer, he snatched my phone from my hand.

“Delete it,” he ordered. “Right now. Take everything down before this gets any worse.”

The screen was filled with notifications. Thousands of shares. Tens of thousands of comments. My mother looked pale while Dad kept pacing near the door.

Lawrence turned toward me. “People are already trying to find Lorinne. Someone went to the orphanage where she grew up. She just went through major surgery, Stella. She can’t deal with this kind of pressure.”

I stared at him. I wasn’t even angry anymore.

“What about me?”

He went quiet.

“I’m lying in an ICU bed, Lawrence. Do you think I can handle getting videos from her every day? Videos of you two in my bedroom? Videos of my things being packed away? Of you touching her while I’m fighting to breathe?”

“She was trying to show you that she cares,” he snapped.

I gave him a weak laugh. “Cares? What exactly is she caring about? Is she waiting for me to die so she can finally have everything? My room, my family, and my husband?”

“Enough.”

“No. I want you to answer me.” My voice shook, but I forced myself to keep going. “Am I supposed to disappear quietly so everyone can pretend this was always meant to happen?”

“Watch what you say.”

Before I could respond, Lorinne appeared behind them. Her eyes were red, and she leaned against Mom as if she could barely stand.

“Lawrence,” she whispered, touching his arm, “please don’t be angry with her. She’s sick. Maybe she didn’t mean all of this.”

His expression changed immediately.

“Lorinne, you shouldn’t be here. You need to rest.”

“I was worried about you.”

He reached up and gently moved her hair away from her face. “I’m fine. Go back to your room. I’ll take care of everything.”

I watched them, and that tiny gesture hurt more than his shouting ever could.

Mom finally stepped forward. “Stella, you’re not thinking clearly. Those posts are damaging the hospital, our family, and everything we’ve worked for.”

“Everything you’ve worked for,” I repeated quietly.

Lawrence looked back at me. “Delete the post and make a public apology. Tell everyone you were emotional and exaggerated what happened. End this before it gets worse.”

“And if I don’t?”

His face went cold. “Then I’ll make sure no hospital in this city accepts you. You’re going to learn that there are consequences for attacking my family.”

“As of today, you’re being discharged. This hospital won’t continue accommodating a patient who’s causing this kind of public disruption.” My mom interrupt.

Dr. Samuel rushed through the door.

“Mrs. Marcel, she can’t be discharged. Her condition is unstable. She needs continuous monitoring and oxygen support.”

Mom didn’t even look at me.

“Then transfer that brat somewhere else!”