My Husband Signed Our Sons Death Chapter 2

The doctor gave a brisk nod and disappeared back through the double doors. The hallway was dead silent, leaving just me and Rob.

Thank God. A wave of dizzying relief washed over me. He has another chance.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, straightened my spine, and looked at my husband. "He can still be saved. If you get that money back from her right now, I won't press charges. We can forget this ever happened..."

But Rob’s brow furrowed. He looked at me like I was a psychiatric patient speaking in tongues.

"Do you have any idea how long Chelsea has been preparing for her semester in Paris?" he demanded. "What is she supposed to do? You're willing to destroy a young woman's entire future just for your son?"

"We don't have the money! Go in there and tell the doctor we're passing on the heart!"

He reached for the handle of the ICU door. Panic seized me. I threw my entire body weight against him, pushing him away from the door.

"I will not let you do this to him again!" I screamed. "If you don't get that money back, I will go to every local news station in this city. I will make sure the whole world knows what you both are!"

I had sold the house I owned before we married. I had sold my car. I had borrowed from every relative who would pick up the phone. I had bled myself dry to raise that money to save my baby. And he thought he could trade my son's life for some stranger's European vacation?

My shove ignited something dark in him.

"Do you know how many people die every day waiting for a heart?" he roared, his voice bouncing off the fluorescent-lit walls. "Do you know how many kids in poverty that money could have fed?"

"All you care about is your defective son! You don't give a damn about anyone else in the world!"

I stopped. The air seemed to get sucked out of the corridor.

I stared at his face—a face that Sammy had inherited. Defective. The word was a jagged blade twisted straight into my ribs.

My mind flashed back to six years ago. The maternity ward. Rob holding a swaddled, pink-faced Sammy, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His eyes had been red-rimmed, his lips trembling so much he could barely form words. He had looked at me with such profound, overwhelming reverence.

“You did so good, Paige,” he had whispered, kissing my damp forehead. “I swear to God, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you and this boy never want for anything.”

It was the most sincere thing he had ever said to me.

Now, that vow was dust.

"Chelsea is right," he spat. "You are pathologically selfish."

Chelsea. It was always Chelsea. Five years ago, he told me he was sponsoring an orphaned teenager through a mentorship program. I had thought it was beautiful. But then it was three hundred dollars a month. Then three thousand. Then thirty thousand. And now, nearly half a million dollars.

That wasn't a charity case. That was a black hole disguised as a girl.

I forced myself to breathe. A terrifying, ice-cold clarity settled over me.

"Are you in love with her?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

His face color drained, then flared a violent red. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

His hand cracked across my cheek. The slap echoed sharply in the empty hall, a burst of white-hot pain exploding across my jaw.

"Chelsea and I are innocent! Your mind is just sick, so you see filth everywhere!"

I pressed my trembling fingers to my stinging cheek. He was pacing, agitated, defensive—like a cornered rat. He was willing to let his own child die. Unless he was completely intoxicated by this girl, nothing else made psychological sense.

"I'm done talking to you," he snapped. "Call the police and cancel the report. If Chelsea misses her flight because of you, I will make your life a living hell."

Before I could answer, the ICU doors opened again. Two nurses walked out, their expressions tightening as they took in the scene—me crying, Rob towering over me.

"This is a critical care wing, not your living room," the older nurse scolded sharply. "Keep your voices down. Your boy is hanging on by a thread in there. The surgery is in three days. Find the money."

Rob let out a frustrated growl, turned on his heel, and stormed down the long corridor.

I stood paralyzed under the flickering fluorescent lights, drowning.