Chapter 2

The memories came back in sharp, painful flashes.

I remembered the antiseptic smell of the hospital five years ago, the grim look on the doctor's face as he explained the risks of the nephrectomy. I remembered signing the consent form without a second thought, my only focus on saving Lily. The searing pain when I woke up, a deep, permanent ache that reminded me of what I'd given.

Sophia had been there, holding my hand, her tears looking so real. "Thank you, Ethan," she had whispered. "You saved our little girl."

A lie. All of it.

I remembered the "kidnapping." The panic that seized me, the terror that I would lose her. The humiliation of the video felt like a small price to pay. I stood in front of my own phone camera in our basement, the concrete cold against my bare feet. I put on the cheap satin dress they had left for me, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I smeared the red lipstick across my mouth, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold it steady.

I said the words they fed me, a nonsensical, rambling speech about secret desires and hidden lives. I danced. I sang a children's nursery rhyme in a high-pitched voice. With every degrading second, I told myself, "This is for Sophia. This is to save her."

They had recorded my soul being flayed, and I had handed them the knife.

After Sophia "returned," she played the part of the traumatized victim perfectly. She'd flinch at loud noises and wake up from nightmares, crying in my arms. I held her, comforted her, and felt a surge of pride that my sacrifice had brought her home safe.

She was an incredible actress.

And Lily. My sweet Lily. She would draw me pictures of a superhero with a scar on his side, telling everyone, "My daddy is the bravest man in the world." She was a child then, a pawn in her mother's game. But the girl I heard talking in the living room today was not a child. She was complicit. She knew. For years, she had known.

Now, sitting in my study, the weight of those five years pressed down on me. It wasn't just the loss of my kidney or my career. It was the theft of my reality. My entire life had been a carefully constructed stage play, and I was the only one who didn't know the script.

I looked around the room. On the shelf was a small, hand-carved wooden bird I'd made for Sophia on our tenth anniversary. She had said it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. I picked it up, the wood smooth in my hand. For a moment, I felt the phantom warmth of that memory, the echo of a love I thought was real.

Then, I squeezed my hand shut, my knuckles white. This was a prop. A piece of the set.

I walked over to the fireplace, my movements stiff. I didn't hesitate. I tossed the wooden bird into the cold, empty hearth. It landed with a hollow clatter. That was the sound of my old life ending.

I needed proof. Concrete, undeniable proof. Their conversation was a start, but I needed more. Sophia was cunning. She would deny everything, paint me as a broken man who had finally lost his mind.

My mind raced. Daniel. The kidney. There had to be a paper trail. But medical records were confidential. How could I get them?

Then I remembered Sophia's old laptop. She had replaced it last year but kept the old one in a storage box in the attic, saying it had "sentimental photos" on it. At the time, I thought it was sweet. Now, I suspected a different reason. People get careless when they think they've won.

I waited until I heard them go upstairs to bed, their laughter echoing down the hallway. The sound made my stomach churn.

Quietly, I slipped out of my study and climbed the pull-down stairs to the attic. Dust motes danced in the beam of my phone's flashlight. I found the box easily, tucked away behind a stack of old magazines.

I brought the laptop back to my study and plugged it in. It whirred to life. It wasn't password-protected. Arrogance.

It took me less than ten minutes to find what I was looking for.

In a hidden folder, buried deep in the documents, were emails. Emails between Sophia and Daniel, going back more than six years.

My blood ran cold as I read them.

They were love letters, filled with passion and promises. But they were also business plans. They detailed their affair, their shared resentment for me, and their sickening plot.

"...Ethan is so trusting, so predictable. He'd do anything for Lily. We just need to make the diagnosis look real. My cousin at the clinic can help with the forged documents..."

"...Once the kidney is in you, my love, you'll be healthy again. Then we can move on to the second phase. The firm. His reputation needs to be in tatters. I have an idea for a video that will make him a laughingstock forever..."

"...He's selling his shares for almost nothing. The board is practically begging him to leave. It's working, Daniel. It's all working. Soon, everything that was his will be ours..."

There were photos, too. Photos of Sophia and Daniel, on vacation together during times she had told me she was visiting her sick aunt. Photos of them kissing, celebrating. In one, Daniel was lifting his shirt, showing a faint scar on his side, a mirror image of my own. Sophia was kissing it.

The final piece was a PDF file. It was Daniel's real medical file, showing his diagnosis of chronic kidney disease. And attached to it was a copy of a large wire transfer from my business account-a transfer I didn't recognize-to an offshore account. The date was two days after my surgery. It was the payment for the "kidnappers."

I had paid for my own destruction.

I sat back, the glow of the screen illuminating my face. The rage was a quiet, steady burn. I wasn't just a victim of betrayal. I was the architect of my own downfall, and they had handed me the blueprints.

I methodically copied every file, every email, every photo onto a secure, encrypted hard drive. I made three copies. One for my lawyer, one to be kept in a safe deposit box, and one to be used when the time was right.

I wiped the laptop clean, returning it to its factory settings, and placed it back in the box in the attic. No trace left.

Back in my study, I booked the one-way flight to Singapore. I had a college friend there, Olivia Chen. She was a brilliant scientist in the field of regenerative medicine. We'd kept in touch over the years, and she'd once offered me a position to consult on architectural designs for new research labs. I had turned it down then, tied to my "family." Now, it was a lifeline.

I sent her a brief email. "Olivia, is that offer still on the table? I need a change of scenery. Ready to start immediately."

Then, I drafted the email to my lawyer, attaching the first set of files. The subject line was simple: "Divorce and Criminal Charges."

I shut the laptop. The house was silent. They were sleeping peacefully, dreaming of their perfect, stolen life.

They thought the game was over. They didn't realize I was about to start a new one.