"I swear."
I held her gaze. She stared right back. Finally, we both burst out laughing. I reached out and pulled her close, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. No desire in it—just pure, gentle devotion. This time, Ella didn't resist.
But the warmth didn't last long. I started noticing things about Ella that weren't right.
Whenever she fell asleep or when her back was turned, a shadow of melancholy would settle over her face. Her eyes would go vacant, staring at nothing. But the moment I said her name, she'd spin around with a bright smile, asking cheerfully what I needed.
She was clearly hiding something from me.
Not just her expressions—her body was changing too. Several times when I greedily hooked my arm around her waist and pulled her close, I noticed it felt fuller than I remembered, softer to the touch.
At first, I thought she'd just gained weight. Until I realized she barely ate anything—the meals they brought, she'd claim she wasn't hungry or force down two bites before looking nauseated.
My unease grew. I searched online and found that this could be a sign of extreme stress. Ella had been under such intense pressure and anxiety that her cortisol levels stayed elevated, causing weight gain. Classic psychological stress response.
I understood then. I'd hurt Ella again.
I'd staged that injury, made the wound look worse than it was, and trapped her in panic and guilt. Then I'd hoarded her company for myself, stealing time she should have spent with Maya. While Maya's condition kept deteriorating, I'd used this almost self-destructive tug-of-war to push Ella to the breaking point.
This was all my fault.
Just as I was about to end this charade, another turning point arrived.
Because of my financing plan, the hospital's resources had improved dramatically. The two patients ahead of Maya both successfully received kidney transplants. Maya moved up to first in line and got her surgery.
The day of the operation, I sat with Ella outside the OR for eight solid hours.
She perched on those hard plastic chairs in the corridor, spine rigid as a wire pulled taut. She never took her eyes off those closed doors, as if watching a portal to another world.
I brought her hot coffee and sandwiches. They went cold untouched. I suggested she rest in the room—I'd get herimmediately if anything happened. She just shook her head, saying over and over that she wasn't going anywhere.
Finally, I gave up and said her name softly.
"Ella."
"I said I'm not going anywhere! What if something happens? What if she wants to tell me one last thing and I'm not there—"
She stopped abruptly, as if frightened by her own unlucky assumption. That ramrod spine collapsed. She slowly hunched over, covered her face with both hands, shoulders shaking violently.
I knew she was crying, though she made no sound. That silent shattering was more heartbreaking than any wail.
"I know," I said, wrapping my arms around her as gently as possible, trying to share my warmth. "It's okay, Ella. Everything's going to be fine."
She didn't push me away. She just buried her face in my chest, letting out short, choked sobs. In that eerily quiet corridor, I felt her tears soak through my shirt, scalding and heavy.
I bent down and gently pried open her cramping fingers, lacing them with mine. For the next three hours, neither of us spoke. Our only connection was that shared warmth between our palms.
Finally, the heavy OR doors scraped open.
Hawkins emerged, pulling down his mask. He looked exhausted. But he was smiling.
"Surgery was successful," he said.
Ella went limp.
I caught her. She leaned against me, shoulders heaving. She laughed twice, then started crying again, as if finally able to release all that pent-up fear.
"Thank you," she told Hawkins, voice so choked she could barely speak. "Thank you. My sister can finally live like a normal person."
