It has to be a coincidence.
Benedict and I had been together for seven years—five dating, two married. He'd treated me like I was made of glass the entire time. I'd never so much as washed a dish in our home. This morning, I'd coughed twice, and he'd practically dragged me here for a full checkup.
Other than my parents, no one in this world had ever loved me more.
I looked up at him. "Are you sure there isn't some mistake?"
"I feel fine. How could I suddenly have kidney failure?"
He reached out and stroked my hair, his touch gentle. "Silly girl. Kidney disease usually doesn't show symptoms until it's serious. We're lucky we caught it early—otherwise, things could've gotten bad."
His expression was so sincere. His voice so tender.
And yet, looking at him made my blood run cold.
I stayed quiet for two seconds, then tried again. "Who's the donor?"
"A college student," he said without hesitation.
My heart dropped.
So it was true. Everything lined up perfectly.
That post—it was Benedict.
He was cheating on me.
And now he was trying to trick me into giving up my kidney for his mistress.