For fifteen years, I melted my heart down into lamp oil, all for the sake of hearing him say, “I need you.”
For the moon in his heart, I personally had both my kidneys removed. Lying on the cold operating table, I heard him gently urge me to sign the divorce papers, just so he could give his true love a proper place in his life.
I loved him until I had nothing left. Even my life became a sacrifice to someone else’s love.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on our wedding night. Red candles burned bright, and his face was just as handsome as ever.
This time, when he handed me that organ donation consent form again, I smiled and slapped it against his flawless face before he could say a word.
“Want a kidney? Here, fresh and ready. Take it now.”
“As for your love story…”
I tore up the marriage certificate, sending scraps of paper fluttering like snow. “Count me out.”
Later, I became the brightest rising star in international medicine, with a world-renowned Chinese medical research titan by my side.
Meanwhile, he knelt outside the transplant ward, eyes bloodshot, begging me to take him back.
I tightened my grip on my fiancé’s arm and brushed my fingertips over my flat stomach. There had once been two scars there, both left for him.
“Mr. Gu, please move.”
“You’re blocking me and my organs from going for our fresh-start checkup.”
Then one day, headlines across the city exploded:
The Gu Group’s president had gone mad.
In front of countless cameras and gasps of shock, he dug up the Gu family grave, trembling so violently he could barely stand, just to retrieve the icy urn of ashes I had long ago “gifted” him.
The epitaph bore just one line, carved by my own hand:
“Here rests the final and only remnant of your love, sir.”
