I Traded My Body To Save My Mother

Reid despised me. For years, the money that kept my mother alive—the chemotherapy, the private nurses—was nothing but a cash-for-sex arrangement, a transaction fueled by his contempt. Ten thousand dollars a night. All because I, a surgical resident, delivered a diagnosis Phoebe—his newest obsession—didn’t want to hear: infertility. My license had been suspended, pending an investigation he instigated, forcing me to rely entirely on his brutal charity. The only thing of value I owned, my grandmother’s wedding ring, was liquidated just to cover my mother’s final surgical consultation. After that, I’d planned to take her away, out of his orbit, out of his sight. But Reid wanted to prove his devotion to Phoebe. He allowed, even encouraged, her—a ruthless gossip columnist—to leak the sordid details of our marriage. I became the city’s joke, the greedy wife trading her body for rent. On New Year’s Eve, my mother saw the headlines. She jumped from the eighth floor of the hospital. I knelt there on the cold tile, the scent of antiseptic and steel in my nostrils, holding her soft, lifeless body. Her final, whispered breath was the only thing I heard in the room: “Kendall, your father and I didn’t name you to compromise.” I rested my hand on her wrist, feeling the slow, terrible fade of her pulse. Outside, the Manhattan skyline exploded in fireworks—a brutal, dazzling display of Reid’s lavish, romantic gesture for Phoebe. Everyone was looking up, their phones raised to capture his grand love story. I was looking down, losing the last person in the world who loved me. The clock struck midnight. My heart is over him.

1 The New York City skyline always hosted fireworks for New Year’s, but Reid’s bespoke display started half an hour before the ball dropped. Everyone in the elite crowd murmured about the cost, the permits he’d pulled, the absolute certainty that Reid Blackwell was truly in love this time. Just last night, desperate for the five thousand dollars still needed for Mom’s pending surgery, I’d gone to him. He’d humiliated me in a downtown penthouse bar, pointing at the bottle of single malt and sneering, “A thousand dollars a sip, Kendall. Earn it.” Now, for Phoebe, he offered a spectacle with both hands. Reid’s phone began vibrating repeatedly—a desperate attempt, no doubt, to gloat over his televised romance with Phoebe, who was photographed watching the show from his yacht. My mother’s medical debt had always forced my compliance. I ignored the screen, walking past the waiting room and into the clinic. I located the floor plan and booked a termination appointment in the Family Planning department. The eighth floor. I leaned half my body out the narrow window, the frigid December wind snapping around me. It was sobering. A second later, a hand clamped onto my waist, dragging me back inside. The familiar, expensive aroma of his Cuban cigar flooded my senses. It was Reid. His face was a mask of fury. “Are you insane, Kendall? The eighth floor? You think that’s high enough?” He shook me. “You’d just end up a quadriplegic mess I’d have to pay to keep alive in some hellhole nursing home!” He was wrong. The eighth floor was enough. This was the first time he’d been to the hospital in the three years since Mom was confined to her bed. For a brief, insane moment, I thought maybe a flicker of conscience had brought him here. Instead, I got an interrogation. He looked at me with cold certainty. “You tipped off the network about Phoebe, didn’t you? Go apologize to her. Now.” My mother’s death was less important than his mistress’s job. I forced a smile, the muscles in my face protesting. “Lost a job? Maybe she had it coming.” The bitter amusement vanished. “If she had the guts to publish trash journalism about my life, she should be ready to face the consequences.” “What part of the article was a lie, Kendall? Your body, my money—it was a transaction! That’s all it ever was!” His words—a transaction—made my head swim. The heat of tears pressed behind my eyes. I couldn’t help myself; I needed an answer, the final shard of truth. “Then why… why did you marry me?” I whispered. Even after my family’s company, Crestwood Group, went bankrupt and we were drowning in debt, he had sought me out and proposed marriage. Reid’s smile was chilling. “To make it legal, Kendall. Anything else would have been soliciting.” His words were a scalpel, finding the last, desperate sliver of hope in my chest and excising it without anesthesia. He was right. I was the fool who had mistaken a contract for connection. “Her issue has nothing to do with me,” I stated calmly, refusing to take the blame for the sabotage. Just as I refused to take the blame for his mother. Mrs. Lin, my mother’s former nurse, rushed in, tears streaming down her face, apologizing for her lapse in attention. “Your mother specially made cream stew. She told me to go heat them up. She wanted you two to eat them together, a little New Year’s ‘reunion.’” The word reunion seemed to snap something in Reid. The temperature in his eyes dropped to absolute zero. He strode forward and grabbed my throat, his thumb pressing dangerously against my carotid artery. “Reunion? You get a reunion?” His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You brought down my mother, my family! And you’re hiding in this hospital for a nice, little goodbye? You should have been the one who died in that kidnapping!” In the past, I would have dissolved into frantic explanations and tears. But my tears had been spent in the half-hour since I found Mom. I simply leaned my neck into his grip. The utter finality, the dead calm in my eyes, must have shocked him. Reid abruptly released me. “You want to die? I won’t make it that easy, Kendall.” He stepped back, a predatory look in his eyes. “You’ll stay right here, bound to me, and you’ll be miserable.” I slumped to the ground. He kicked the thermos of cream stew, sending them scattering across the floor. “Since you won’t apologize,” he said, looking amused, “pick them up and eat them. Or maybe I should tell Mrs. Lin’s daughter that her tuition funding is gone. What’s her major again? Columbia pre-med?” 2 He was threatening to ruin Mrs. Lin and her daughter. This was his favorite move—to use the people I cared about to enforce his dominance. Just last month, because I hadn’t moved fast enough out of Phoebe’s path, he’d rammed his SUV into my car. My driver escaped only because of the airbag. He only ever smiled when I compromised. I could walk away now, but Mrs. Lin needed her career in the city. I couldn’t be responsible for her ruin, too. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I lowered myself, acknowledging the defeat. One by one, I picked up the lukewarm, doughy vegetables of cream stew scattered on the grimy hospital floor—a floor that had seen countless footsteps and carried God knows what strains of infection. I ate them like an idiot, forcing them down. The salty taste of my tears mixed with the grime, but all I tasted was my mother’s final act of love. I couldn’t waste it. Mrs. Lin turned away, unable to watch. Reid’s face was recognizable from countless society pages. A few passersby paused, their phones coming up, eager to capture the drama. He barked a single, cold command: “Get out.” Then he hauled me up by the arm. “Lowering yourself for a housekeeper, Kendall? You’ve always loved to make a spectacle of me.” He caught sight of the tear tracks on my face and his hand instinctively moved to brush them away. I flinched back. I asked him quietly, my voice utterly flat, “Are you satisfied now?” Was it over? Could he let Mrs. Lin go now? The calm of my voice made Reid’s breathing catch. He looked confused. I had begged him, many times, just to visit Mom. He opened his mouth, probably to accuse me of an elaborate act. Then his phone rang. “Reid, I’m scared.” Phoebe’s soft whimper was enough to snatch his attention away. He stared at me, and for the first time, he offered something that sounded like an explanation. “She isn’t feeling well. I’ll come back later…” I cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t ever come back.” Let the dead rest in peace. Let the lovers have their time. Reid frowned. “Phoebe is suffering from PTSD because she was trying to save you.” When I showed no reaction, he laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “Fine. But if you walk away now, don’t come crawling back to me like a stray dog begging for a place to sleep!” The fireworks outside continued their roar, and his words burned the flesh of my heart until it was raw and useless. I remembered my eighteenth birthday. I’d wished for a firework display over the Manhattan skyline. Back then, Reid had just started at Blackwell Group and every move he made was scrutinized by the board. He promised he’d give me the fireworks the day we married. But before the engagement, his mother and I went shopping for my wedding jewelry. We were both kidnapped. I was released physically unharmed; his mother was brutally assaulted, leading to a complete nervous breakdown. The news was suppressed, but a reporter got the exclusive and ran with it. Unable to cope, his mother swallowed a bottle of pills. His father packed up the remains and left the country, never to return. From that day on, Reid was convinced that I had leaked the story. I’d explained, I’d pleaded, but he never believed me. “Who else could it be, Kendall?” Then, my family’s Crestwood Group went under. Secrets leaked, rivals stole contracts, and my parents were in a fatal car accident while fleeing debt collectors. Mom survived, but was critically injured. When I was truly desperate, Reid was the only one who showed up. He offered marriage and to cover Mom’s medical expenses. No rings, no ceremony—I accepted, foolishly believing there was a shred of true feeling left. Now, he was giving the fireworks he’d promised me to someone else. Phoebe, I realized, was always meant to be my shield. The trauma of his mother’s kidnapping was too great. He often said that by treating Phoebe well, he could somehow atone for the guilt he felt over me. Last year, Phoebe was kidnapped. She was subjected to psychological torture and diagnosed with severe PTSD. Reid found her, holding her tightly as they were evacuated. What he didn’t know was that I was also taken that day. I was kept in a locked storage closet, stashed away in a filthy petroleum drum. My wrists were tied so tightly my hand tendons were severely damaged. No one found me until the police did a second sweep of the site. Since then, Reid had treated Phoebe with a soft, protective tenderness. But I wasn’t blind. I could see the genuine, protective love in his eyes. No major New York media outlet dared run a story on Reid, yet Phoebe, a minor columnist, always got the exclusive. The man who could calmly close a billion-dollar deal was running down the stairs—ignoring the elevator—because his mistress said, “I’m scared.” I slipped the electronic watch from my wrist. A rose tattoo hid the jagged, ugly scar from where the kidnappers had cut into my tendons. Reid never noticed I could no longer hold a surgical scalpel. I was just a doctor of theory now. 3 I returned to Mom’s room to gather her belongings. I pulled open her drawer and saw rows of brightly colored pain medication, all neatly stacked. Too many. I checked the hospital’s automatic payment system. The withdrawal amounts had been noticeably reduced for the last several months. She had been hoarding them, afraid of becoming a financial burden. I remembered her last call to me before the jump: “Kendall, happy New Year. Next year won’t be as painful as this one.” I hadn’t even had the chance to say, “Happy New Year, Mom.” The unsung blessing became a wave of tears that choked my throat. The cremation and memorial were scheduled for three days later. Before that, I needed to see Reid. He despised me; he would welcome the chance to sign the papers. I didn’t even make it through the front door of our Upper East Side penthouse when I heard his voice, laughing. “See? I told you. Pay up. She always cracks.” “Seriously, Reid? You can recognize your own wife’s footsteps?” I froze, gripping my handbag. They were running a pool, betting on how long it would take me to come back and beg. How much was the stake? What was the value of our entire relationship? I no longer cared. I walked in. Phoebe was there, wearing my silk pajamas. My possessiveness was a known quantity. I hated people touching my things, my possessions, my husband. Now, watching her lean half-heartedly against Reid, I didn’t feel the old, hysterical rage. She straightened quickly, offering a faux-apologetic smile. “I accidentally spilled wine, Kendall. Reid made me borrow a clean set.” She looked at me innocently. “You don’t mind, do you, big sister?” I gave her a flat look. “I don’t mind.” I was done with both the pajamas and the man. She could have the leftovers. Reid watched me, a faint frown creasing his brow. Phoebe scanned me head to toe, then covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Kendall, you didn’t even bring Reid a present? Even when you’re pouting, you shouldn’t embarrass him in front of guests.” Confetti and balloons littered the floor, shouting “Happy Birthday.” I’d forgotten. It was Reid’s birthday. For years, I had baked his cake myself, never missing a single one. Everyone was waiting for my answer. Even Reid’s cigarette burned down to his fingers, unnoticed. 4 I managed a slight smile. “I did bring a gift. You could call it a birthday present.” I was giving him his freedom. I was giving myself a new life. He grinned, utterly convinced of his victory. “I figured you couldn’t stay tough for more than twenty-four hours.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a file folder. The word DISSOLUTION was typed clearly on the front. “Happy birthday, Reid,” I said. “My signature is already on it.” Reid’s smile vanished, inch by agonizing inch. He sat back on the plush leather sofa, his gaze dark. His first instinct was the usual: How much money do you want? He picked up the document, his eyes finally landing on the last clause: Zero Alimony / Waiving all Claims. I knew I couldn’t fight the Blackwell Group empire. All I wanted was out. His voice was a strained snarl. “I already had the article taken down! What is this performance? What ridiculous drama are you trying to stir up now, Kendall?” He could retract the news, but could he resurrect my mother? Our relationship was too far gone to save. Reid should have been thrilled to sign. I looked at him, genuinely confused. “Let’s just end this amicably.” Phoebe stepped forward to play the peacemaker. “Big sister, are you really trying to play the tragic heroine to squeeze more money out of him? You’ve used this move so many times. Just apologize. Reid has always forgiven you, no matter what you did.” That phrase—what you did—made Reid’s face shift. He pointed a rigid finger at the front door. “Five hours on your knees,” he said, his voice cold. “I’ll sign then.” The city had been suffering a bitter cold snap. He was certain I would crumble, just as I always did when the smallest hardship struck. But in the last three years, I’d watched my family’s fortune dissolve. I’d sold the family home to pay debts. I drank myself sick at business meetings just to gather enough cash to win it back at auction. I changed my mother’s catheters and dealt with her bedpans myself. Reid’s monthly payment barely covered her palliative care. I picked up every unwanted night shift at the clinic just to earn an extra dime. My mother was my soft spot, the instrument of his control. Not anymore. I placed the agreement on the mahogany table. “I’ll hold you to your word, Reid.” Then I walked out to the patio and knelt down. The mansion sat on a hillside, overlooking a million-dollar coastal view. The wind was relentless. All I cared about was the clock. Five hours. Inside, I heard the crash of breaking glass. Then, Reid rushed out, cradling Phoebe, whose lower leg was bleeding. I glanced at my phone. Four minutes left. I grabbed the hem of his expensive overcoat. “You promised you’d sign the agreement.” My voice was barely a breath. “Just give me five minutes. I can stitch her up.” Reid stopped, his expression hardening. He had anticipated rage, jealousy, and histrionics. Not a surgeon’s clinical calm, not a willingness to kneel and treat his mistress. I swiftly took out my trauma kit. I expertly used the tweezers to remove the glass shards—a superficial wound that looked deliberately exaggerated for effect. Disinfection. Bandage. Done. The rush of final release was close enough to taste. Phoebe’s hand dropped to her side. She spoke softly, but loud enough for me to hear. “Recognize this, Kendall? Reid said it was his apology.” I froze, the ointment tube slipping in my hand. On her wrist was the Jade Bangle—my mother’s heirloom, passed down to me. Even when we were penniless, I’d never considered selling it. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. My knees ached with a dull, insistent throbbing. I stood up, slowly, the need to escape now an urgent imperative. This was just another one of their games. I held the divorce papers out to him. “Sign it.” His eyes dropped to my stomach, then back to my face. “You know I hate loose ends, Kendall. Especially a bastard child running around.” He must have found the ultrasound report. That had been the real birthday gift—the one I’d hoped would repair the rift between us. He was waiting for me to break, for me to plead for the life of our child. I managed a small, cruel smile. “You don’t have to worry.” The trouble, the loose end, was already dealt with. He had always expected a perfect wife—dutiful, socially adept, a PR clean-up artist who would give him a quiet heir. I’d done all that. He should have been grateful. Instead, he looked like he’d been slapped. He took the pen and signed the document with a furious, scraping sound. “Get the hell out.” He looked up, his eyes black with contempt. “We’ll meet at the registry in a month.” 5 I didn’t contact Reid after that. He called only once, on the day of Mom’s cremation. He sounded drunk. “Kendall, why won’t you just swallow your pride? Say you’re sorry about the abortion, and I’ll forgive you.” His voice thickened with artificial authority. “Otherwise, your mother’s payment this month isn’t going through.” I laughed, a ragged, hollow sound. He didn’t even know she was dead. His greatest leverage was gone, severed by his own apathy. “Suit yourself, Reid.” A staff member called out, “Window three for the final sealing.” I picked up the small silver marker and approached the smooth, white urn. My mother’s life, and her death, had purchased my freedom. It was effective now. “Never again,” I whispered. The birthday party ended with the sound of a woman screaming and a man’s angry shouts. Reid returned to the penthouse hours later, alone. He went to the bedroom and found that Kendall had taken nothing. The large, vessel he’d received as a wedding gift was the only thing he could focus on. He hated this silence. It felt lonelier than any alleyway. His assistant reported back. Kendall’s surgery had taken place just two hours before she drove to the penthouse. The anesthetic must have barely worn off. He smashed the embroidery into a hundred splinters. “I don’t want to hear another word about her!” he roared at the retreating assistant. He retreated to a bar for three days, confident that when the hospital bill arrived on the 15th, she’d come crawling back. Carter, his childhood friend, tracked him down and dragged him from the velvet booth. “Can you snap out of it?” Carter demanded, punching him in the jaw. “Three years ago, you promised you’d take care of Kendall!” Reid rubbed his cheek, feeling a strange surge of elation. “She called you, didn’t she?” Carter had moved his focus to Europe years ago. He and Kendall had been especially close. Then Reid’s gaze landed on the small, white rose lapel pin on Carter’s jacket. His chest tightened. “What’s with the flower, Carter? Someone in your family?” Carter looked at him, his face a study in chilling pity. “Reid. It was Aunt Marian’s memorial today. You didn’t show, but you could at least recognize the flower.” The room went cold. Reid stared at his friend, his jaw slack. “What… what are you talking about?”