Chapter 2

The moment the door opened, I let my breathing sink even deeper.

The heels were steady and unhurried. Then came a second set of footsteps—lighter, deliberately slowed, as if someone was afraid of waking me.

Victoria stopped at my side.

She didn’t speak right away. She simply leaned in and studied me for a moment.

Then another man’s voice cut in, excitement pressed low on purpose.

“Looks quiet enough,” he said. “You sure nothing’s going to go wrong?”

Victoria gave a soft little laugh.

“He won’t wake up,” she said. “Not until we’re done with what we came to do.”

I recognized that voice.

Lucas Grant—Victoria’s boyfriend.

For three years she’d never tried to hide it, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

She needed a doctor husband to keep up appearances, and she needed a lover to satisfy the life she actually wanted.

I didn’t know what Evan’s relationship with her had been like before.

But for the past three years, my role in that house had been crystal clear: the man who stood in family photos, the hand that signed papers when needed, the tool that watched the kid and held up the public image.

She could ignore me and flirt with Lucas right in front of my face, then make me play driver and babysitter when she drank too much.

As for Noah, it wasn’t exactly abuse—but she wasn’t a mother, either.

In her eyes I was an eyesore, and Noah barely existed. She’d never shown up for a single school event, never once taken him to a doctor when he was sick.

I even suspected he might not be her biological child and secretly had a DNA test done. The result was unfortunate in the simplest way: she really was his mother. Some people are just like that.

Noah understood early that asking her for warmth was pointless, so he never clung to her.

I could have fought back. In my old life, pushing back wasn’t even a choice—it was instinct.

But I couldn’t.

Right now, my name was Evan Cole. Evan was a doctor, not the kind of man who could pin someone down and snap a wrist without blinking.

I’d kept my limits tight.

Stay quiet when I needed to. Step back when I had to. If necessary, even look a little more useless than I really was. Victoria liked control. The more powerless she thought I was, the less attention she paid me.

Those thoughts flickered through my head, because new sounds entered the room.

The door opened again. A cart rolled in from the hallway, wheels whispering over the floor.

The metal wheels were soft, but in a place this quiet, every sound felt sharp.

A man spoke, professional and routine, like he was reading off a checklist. “We’re about ready.”

“Should we give him another shot?” Victoria asked casually, as if she were standing in a legitimate operating room.

“No,” the man replied. “Too much anesthetic will affect the donor.”

From the tone, he sounded like a doctor.

But the word donor flashed in my mind.

Donor—for what?

Another two people entered. Their footsteps were lighter, likely assistants or nurses.

Someone parked the cart beside me. I caught the smell of alcohol. Metal instruments clicked softly together, like a quiet reminder that they were about to begin.

My eyes stayed shut, but I pulled my hearing tight, sharpening it to the finest edge.

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Victoria told the doctor. “The match is excellent. I don’t want any mistakes. Follow protocol and move fast.”

The doctor seemed to nod. His voice carried a trace of eagerness. “Understood. Once the heart is removed, we’ll preserve it immediately.”

Heart.

For a fraction of a second, it felt like cold water hit my spine. I kept my muscles relaxed, not letting even the smallest tension rise to the surface.

Victoria had brought me to a place like this, with doctors and nurses, a cart of instruments, and talk of removal, preservation, matching. The answer didn’t need guessing.

They were going to take my heart—and give it to someone else who matched.

I held my breathing steady and forced myself to stay motionless, as if still unconscious.

They were standing over me. Any tiny reaction would draw eyes.

Lucas spoke again, clearly uneasy.

“You’re sure this place is safe? What if someone bursts in—”

“No one’s coming here,” Victoria cut him off, impatience slipping into her voice. “This place exists for exactly this kind of ‘project.’ On paper it’s a medical investment and rehab center. Everything looks clean, permits and all. The access control isn’t something just anyone gets through. Even if someone did walk in, they’d only see the normal floors.”

It sounded like she was explaining it to him—and also calming him down.

I inhaled carefully through my nose, sorting the information: this wasn’t a spur‑of‑the‑moment location. It was a long-running safe site built to handle “special projects.”

I’d known Victoria came from money, something in the medical equipment business. I hadn’t expected the truth to be organ trafficking behind a polished front.

Lucas seemed half convinced, but he still pushed. “And transport? The buyer’s paying huge money and moving fast, but he’s rushing us. A heart—if the preservation slips…”

Victoria stepped to the cart, flipped through a folder like she was checking a schedule. “That’s why I arranged the helicopter.”

She said it lightly, like she was discussing a short trip. “As soon as the surgery is done, it goes into the cold box and out through the roof. Straight to delivery. No public stops, no paperwork, no records. You just make sure your contact doesn’t start changing terms at the last second.”

“A helicopter?” Lucas clicked his tongue. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

“It’s not,” Victoria said, her tone turning colder. “If you want to hold the price, don’t cheap out on the only part that matters. We need reliability, not luck.”

Listening to them, I had the picture assembled: this place belonged to the Harlow family. The surface was medical business, the real operation was darker. It wasn’t an impulse—there were procedures, equipment, and a transport plan.

Lucas had brought in the buyer, some wealthy man paying top dollar. To meet the deadline, they’d even pulled a helicopter.

To them, I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a container that happened to match.

I kept my eyes closed, kept playing the role of a sedated patient. I even let a faint, sloppy sound escape my throat—an unconscious noise, the kind a drugged body might make.

A nurse leaned in to check me, then pulled back. No suspicion.

“Good,” Victoria said briskly. “Start prepping.”

She took a half step back. Her heel tapped the floor once, softly.

In that moment, I could almost see her expression: not excitement, not nerves—just the ease of someone who had finished arranging a job.

But she’d missed one thing.

I wasn’t Evan Cole.

I was Kane Walker.

And in my head, I was already counting the seconds.