The Donor Took My Life

I was Ariel Burnett, a tech mogul, a genius celebrated in Silicon Valley, with a loving husband, Damien, and a loyal best friend, Cohen. My world was perfect until a rare, aggressive liver disease threatened to take it all away.

They promised to save me, and they did. Three years of fighting, a successful transplant, and I was finally healthy, ready to surprise them. But when I arrived at my penthouse, a security guard stopped me, claiming Mrs. Hobbs was already upstairs.

My smile froze when he showed me a photo: Kara Gregory, my liver donor, standing on my balcony, looking just like me. The world tilted. I stumbled, hitting my head, as Damien' s voice crackled over the guard' s radio, telling him to get rid of the "crazy woman" disturbing Kara, his "wife."

They were in my home, my bed, the penthouse Damien designed for me. Kara, the woman I pitied, the one who claimed she didn't take charity, was now living my life, with my husband and my brother-figure.

The pain in my head was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. My husband, my brother, they were in this together. The betrayal was complete. I knew then that my perfect world was a lie, and I was nothing but an inconvenience to be managed.

Chapter 1

I was Ariel Burnett, a name that used to shine in Silicon Valley. I built a tech empire from the ground up, and the world celebrated my genius.

My husband, Damien Hobbs, was the charismatic CEO of his own colossal tech firm. He treated me like the center of his universe, a fragile treasure he had to protect. Every morning, he' d personally make my coffee, exactly how I liked it, and every night, he' d read to me until I fell asleep. He said my mind was a gift to the world, and his job was to cherish it.

Then there was Cohen Goodwin, the venture capitalist who saw my potential before anyone else. He was more than a business partner; he was the brother I never had. He guided me, celebrated my wins, and picked me up after my failures. He always said, "Ariel, you and I, we're a team. Nothing can break that."

They were the two most important men in my life. The pillars holding up my perfect world.

Then, that world started to crack. A diagnosis came out of nowhere: a rare, aggressive liver disease. The doctors gave me a year, maybe two.

Damien and Cohen fell apart. I remember Damien holding my hand, his face pale with fear.

"I'll spend every dollar I have. We'll find a cure, Ariel. I swear it."

Cohen just held me, his own body trembling.

"Whatever it takes," he whispered. "Whatever it takes to save you."

And they did. They kept their promise.

Damien poured a fortune into finding the best specialists, finally locating a cutting-edge clinic in Switzerland that specialized in partial liver transplants. Cohen put his entire life on hold, moving into a suite near the clinic to be with me through every painful procedure and month of recovery.

It took three long years. Three years of fighting, of hoping, of being separated from the life I knew. But it worked. The transplant was a success. I was alive. I was healthy.

I decided to fly back to the US unannounced. I imagined the looks on their faces-the shock, the joy. I pictured Damien dropping whatever he was doing to sweep me into his arms, Cohen ruffling my hair and telling me, "I knew you could do it."

I took a cab straight to our San Francisco penthouse, the glass tower that overlooked the bay. My home.

But I couldn't get past the lobby. The new security guard stopped me, his hand held up firmly.

"Ma'am, can I help you?"

I smiled, feeling a rush of excitement. "I live here. I'm Ariel Burnett. Mrs. Hobbs."

The guard' s expression didn't change. He looked me up and down, then his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"I don't know who you are, but Mrs. Hobbs is upstairs."

My smile froze. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

He seemed to enjoy my confusion. His tone shifted from professional to annoyed, as if I were wasting his time.

"Mrs. Hobbs is here. You need to leave before I call the police."

"There must be a mistake," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "I am Mrs. Hobbs."

The guard let out a short, nasty laugh. He pulled out his phone and shoved the screen in my face.

"This is Mrs. Hobbs."

I looked at the photo. It was a woman standing on our balcony, smiling into the camera. A woman who looked so much like me it was disorienting. The same dark hair, the same jawline, the same shape of the eyes.

But it wasn't me. It was Kara Gregory.

My liver donor.

The world tilted. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth. The guard's face twisted into a sneer.

"See? Now get out of here. We get crazy fans like you all the time, trying to get to Mr. Hobbs. It's pathetic."

He said the name "Mr. Hobbs" with a certain familiarity, a certain pride.

He put a hand on my shoulder to push me toward the door. The touch was rough, and my body, still weak from years of treatment, couldn't take the force. I lost my balance and fell, my head cracking against the cold marble floor.

A sharp pain exploded behind my eyes, and the world swam in a dizzying haze.

As I lay there, the guard's radio crackled to life. A voice, clear and familiar, filled the silent lobby. Damien' s voice.

"What's the commotion down there? I told you to keep things quiet."

The guard' s tone immediately became servile. "Mr. Hobbs, sir. Sorry for the disturbance. Just a crazy woman here, claiming to be your wife. I'm handling it."

My blood ran cold.

"A crazy woman?" Damien's voice was impatient. "Just get rid of her. Kara is trying to sleep, and I don't want her disturbed."

Kara. He said her name with such tenderness, a tone he once reserved only for me.

They were in our home. Our bed. The penthouse Damien had designed for me, with the floor-to-ceiling windows so I could watch the sunrise over the water.

My heart felt like it had stopped beating. I remembered him carrying me over the threshold after we got married, his voice thick with emotion as he said, "Welcome home, Mrs. Hobbs. This is our forever."

Now, another woman was sleeping in our bed, and he was protecting her from me.

The pain in my head was nothing compared to the agony ripping through my chest.

Then, another voice, soft and feminine, murmured from the radio. Kara's voice.

"Damien, honey, what is it?"

"Nothing, baby. Go back to sleep," Damien cooed, his voice melting into that familiar, loving tone. "I'll be right up."

"Okay," she said. "Don't forget we have dinner with Cohen tonight."

The radio clicked off.

Silence.

The world had gone silent. My brother. My husband. They were together, in this. The betrayal was complete.

I somehow managed to pull myself to my feet, my body screaming in protest. I stumbled out of the building, the city lights blurring through my tears.

My phone started vibrating in my pocket. A text from Damien.

`Thinking of you, love. Hope the new round of therapy isn't too hard. Can't wait for you to be home.`

A second later, another one. From Cohen.

`Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. Sorry I can't be in Switzerland with you this week, things are crazy at the office. Be strong. I miss you.`

I stared at the messages, at the casual, loving lies. They were texting me about my "recovery" while living a new life with my replacement, in my home.

I remembered Kara. The young, ambitious intern at Damien's company. She had the same eyes, the same hair. I had even joked with her once.

"It's like you're me from a parallel universe," I'd said, laughing.

Cohen had put an arm around my shoulder. "Don't be silly. There's only one Ariel Burnett. You're irreplaceable."

Damien had barely glanced at her. He was always so focused on me, he rarely noticed other women. He' d dismissed her as just another intern trying to get ahead.

I knew her story. She was from a poor family, working three jobs to support her sick mother. She had agreed to be my donor in exchange for a sum of money that would cover her mother's medical bills for life.

I remembered feeling sorry for her. She was always dressed in cheap clothes that didn't quite fit, her posture stooped as if she were trying to make herself smaller.

One day, I tried to give her a personal check, far more than we had agreed upon.

"You're saving my life," I told her. "This is the least I can do."

She had pushed the check back into my hand, her chin held high.

"I can't take this, Mrs. Hobbs. I don't take charity."

Her pride had impressed me then. Now, I saw it for what it was: a mask.