Chapter 1

Seven years.

For seven years, I'd been a blood bag, a platelet factory, for Chloe Vance.

All because I, Ava Chen, was the only perfect HLA match for her rare aplastic anemia.

And all because I was stupidly, desperately in love with Ethan Cole.

Ethan, who loved Chloe.

The doctors at Mount Sinai kept saying how lucky Chloe was to have me.

Lucky.

I'd given platelets so many times I'd lost count. Stem cells harvested from my blood, leaving me weak and aching for days. Each time, a little piece of me chipped away.

My family, comfortable but not Cole-level wealthy, worried. My architecture dreams at Columbia were constantly on hold.

But I did it. For Ethan. Hoping one day he'd see me.

Now, Chloe needed the big one. A full bone marrow transplant. High risk. For her. For me.

This was my leverage. My last, desperate gamble.

I told Ethan my condition.

Marriage.

He had to marry me if he wanted me to go through with this transplant, the one that could actually save Chloe, or kill me.

He stood by my hospital bed, his Wharton-educated mind probably calculating the cost-benefit.

His handsome face, the one I'd plastered all over my teenage dreams, was unreadable.

Then, a curt nod. "Fine, Ava. If that's what it takes."

No emotion. Just a transaction.

The day of the procedure arrived. The operating room was cold, sterile.

I was terrified, but a small, foolish part of me felt a sliver of triumph. I would be Mrs. Ethan Cole.

Then, during the harvest, something went wrong.

Alarms blared. Voices, urgent, cut through the fog in my head.

Pain, sharp and overwhelming, then... nothing.

Darkness.

But I could hear.

Faintly, as if from a great distance, Ethan's voice, sharp with impatience.

"Is the marrow viable for Chloe? That's all that matters."

A doctor mumbled something about my condition.

"Just make sure the marrow is viable," Ethan repeated, his voice like ice. "If Ava doesn't make it, so be it."

So be it.

My life, dismissed.

My seven years of sacrifice, my love, my very existence, weighed against Chloe's needs and found wanting.

That was my death. The death of the foolish, hopeful Ava.

Then, a gasp. My own.

My eyes snapped open.

The same hospital room. Sunlight streamed through the window.

Confused, I looked around.

The IV stand. The smell of antiseptic.

I was... alive.

But the memory, those words, "If Ava doesn't make it, so be it," burned in my mind, clearer than anything I'd ever known.

A nurse bustled in. "Ms. Chen, you're awake! You gave us quite a scare. You fainted just as we were prepping you for the pre-transplant tests."

Pre-transplant tests?

Fainted?

No. I hadn't fainted. I had flatlined. I had heard him.

It wasn't a dream. It was a memory, a horrifyingly vivid one.

So, the major transplant hadn't happened yet. The deal for marriage, his callous agreement, it was all still fresh, still on the table.

I was back at that precipice. With the knowledge of his utter indifference.

My mind reeled. I was back here, before the final, life-altering procedure.

The weight of those seven years pressed down on me.

I remembered the first time I saw Ethan. Freshman orientation week at Columbia. He was a Wharton man, already exuding power, visiting a friend. Chloe Vance, an NYU student, was on his arm even then, looking delicate and charming at some charity event they'd both attended.

He'd barely glanced my way. But I was smitten.

A naive fool.

He was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, powerful, the heir to Cole Holdings.

Chloe, with her doe eyes and whispered confidences about her health, had him wrapped around her little finger.

And I, the convenient, compatible donor, became their lifeline.

The words echoed again: "If Ava doesn't make it, so be it."

My folly. My utter, self-destructive folly.

Seven years chasing a mirage.

Wasting my youth, my health, my ambitions, for a man who wouldn't care if I dropped dead, as long as Chloe got what she needed.

A cold clarity settled over me.

No more.

I wouldn't be his path to Chloe's salvation. I wouldn't be his wife. I wouldn't be his anything.

This time, I would choose myself.

Ethan walked in later that day, looking impatient.

"Ava. You feeling well enough to discuss the arrangements? The transplant is scheduled for next week. The marriage license..."

He trailed off, expecting me to fill in the blanks, to assure him I was ready to sign my life away.

I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time without the rose-tinted glasses of infatuation.

Arrogant. Self-absorbed. Cruel.

"Ethan," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "We need to be clear about what this marriage means."

He waved a dismissive hand. "It means Chloe gets the marrow she needs. And you get to be Mrs. Cole. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

His tone was condescending, as if I were a child pestering him for a toy.

The old Ava would have flinched. The new Ava felt nothing but a cold resolve.

Later, after Ethan left, a nurse came in to check my vitals.

Chloe had been by earlier, apparently, while I was "resting." She'd left a small, expensive-looking clutch on the bedside table.

"She was so worried about you," the nurse chirped.

I doubted that.

Inside the clutch, among the designer lipsticks and credit cards, was her driver's license. Chloe Vance. Her address. Her social security card, tucked carelessly into a side pocket.

An idea, sharp and sudden, sliced through my thoughts.

A reckless, audacious idea.

I told Ethan the next day, my voice calm, "I'll go through with the transplant. And don't worry about the marriage license. I've taken care of the application at New York City Hall."

He looked relieved, already mentally moving on. "Good. Knew you'd see sense."

He didn't ask for details. Why would he? Ava Chen, the lovesick fool, was handling it.

I used Chloe Vance's documents.

I filled out the marriage license application.

For Ethan Cole and Chloe Vance.

A small, bitter smile touched my lips as I sealed the completed forms, ready to be filed.

A profound sense of liberation washed over me.

The chains I had willingly worn for seven years were finally, irrevocably, breaking.

Manhattan might have been my mirage, but a new dawn was coming.