She looked at me, frozen on the hospital bed and flashed a smug smile. Then she choked my throat.
"Did you see these? Do you know that in the past eight years, James was passionately tangled with me every night when you were heartbroken and crying out in pain? He also made a recording of your wailing voice to heighten our passion …"
"Originally, James planned to throw the heart that was transplanted into you into the trash after it died. I don’t know what trick you used, you bitch, but the surgery actually worked!”
"But it doesn't matter. James said your illness is most susceptible to anger—one wrong move and you'll die of rage. We'll wear you down first, then your parents. Then your entire family fortune and this hospital will be ours! So tell me — is divorce enough?”
Suddenly, when the thought of eight years of me staying alone at home, while enduring excruciating pain and clutching photos of James, flooded my mind, a sharp pang shot through my heart.
But before my hand could land on her face, James burst through the door and kicked my wrist. Then pulled Wanda into his arms.
Wanda, looking as wronged as a little rabbit, cowered in James's embrace.