No More Tears for Him

Five years ago, I gave everything – my dreams, my health, every last penny – to save the man I loved from a fatal heart condition.

I scrubbed pots on double shifts, my hands raw, convinced I was putting my love on the path to recovery.

But his fiancée, Jennifer, had other plans.

She showed him doctored photos, whispered lies, and made it seem like I was selling my body, not my soul, for him.

He believed her instantly, threw the money back in my face, and walked away, spitting that I deserved to rot.

Now, five years later, those words are a cold prophecy: my kidneys are failing, I have six months to live.

As I stumbled out of the free clinic, dizzy and broken, I saw him again-Ethan Scott, now a superstar music producer, stepping out of a luxury car with Jennifer, her hand protectively over a pregnant belly.

They were heading into the exclusive private hospital next door, a world away from my despair.

My body chose that moment to betray me; I collapsed, scattering my pills and medical records on the dirty sidewalk.

He stared down at me, his eyes colder than any winter, then watched as Jennifer ground her heel into my hand and had my lifeline swept into a trash can.

He even threw a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at my feet, declaring I was worth less than a donation to an animal shelter.

How could he believe such monstrous lies?

How could he, the man I sacrificed everything for, be so utterly blind to the truth of what I endured for him?

What secret did Jennifer hold over him that made him choose her cruel deception over the life-saving act I committed?

"Elyse, you're just trash. You'd do anything for a buck. People like you deserve to rot."

Five years. Five years and Ethan Scott' s voice still echoed in my head, the words as sharp and cold as the day he first said them. He had screamed them at me outside my dorm room, his face twisted with a rage I didn't understand.

I had just come back from a double shift at a diner, my hands raw from scrubbing pots, my pockets holding the cash that would pay for the first installment of his life-saving heart surgery.

But he didn't see a savior. He saw a traitor.

His fiancée, Jennifer Chadwick, had made sure of that. She stood beside him then, just as she stands beside him now, a picture of innocence and concern. Back then, she had shown him doctored photos, fake text messages making it look like I was selling my body, not my time and my health.

He believed her. He threw the money I'd saved for him back in my face and walked away.

Now, five years later, the final bill for my sacrifice has come due.

The doctor in the free clinic looked at my chart, his expression grim. "End-stage renal failure, Ms. Johns. Your kidneys are giving out. Without a transplant, you have maybe six months."

Six months. The words didn't even register at first. All I could think about was the prescription for painkillers in my hand, another cost I couldn't afford. My life had become a series of impossible bills. I dropped out of Pratt, my dream of being an artist turning to dust. I worked as a cleaner, a shot girl, any job that would pay, pushing my body until it broke.

All for a man who wished I would rot.

I walked out of the clinic, my head spinning. The world outside was too bright, too loud. And then I saw him.

He was stepping out of a sleek black car, opening the door for a woman whose hand rested protectively on her swollen belly. Ethan Scott. A name that was now plastered on billboards, a face that graced magazine covers. He was a star music producer, wealthy, successful. And he was with Jennifer Chadwick, her diamond engagement ring catching the sun.

They were heading into the high-end private medical facility right next to my free clinic. A universe away.

My body chose that exact moment to betray me. A wave of dizziness hit me so hard I stumbled, my legs giving out. My prescription, my medical records, everything scattered across the dirty sidewalk.

And he saw me. His eyes, once full of love, were now cold, hard stones.

Ethan' s face was a mask of contempt. He recognized me instantly, but there was no shock, no flicker of old affection. Just pure, unadulterated disgust.

Jennifer gasped, clutching his arm. "Ethan, darling, who is that?"

I scrambled to pick up my papers, my hands shaking too much to get a grip. My worn-out clothes, my pale, gaunt face-I was a ghost from a past he had buried. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

"No one," I mumbled, keeping my head down, my hair falling over my face. "You have the wrong person."

His laugh was a harsh, ugly sound. "The wrong person? Amnesia, Elyse? Is that your new angle? You hear I'm in town, that I have money, and you stage this little scene?"

He took a step closer, towering over me. The smell of his expensive cologne, a scent I once associated with safety, now made me want to gag.

"You haven't changed a bit," he sneered, his voice low and vicious. "Still playing the victim. Still looking for a handout."

He gestured to the papers on the ground. "What's this? A sob story? Let me guess, you got into some trouble, and now you need your old pal Ethan to bail you out?"

Jennifer stepped forward, her perfectly manicured hand coming to rest on her pregnant belly. She looked down at me, her eyes filled with a triumphant cruelty. "Oh, Ethan, be careful. People like her can be so... desperate."

She looked at my scattered pills. "What are those for? Some kind of disease you picked up with your lifestyle?"

The words from five years ago came rushing back, his final curse. "Elyse, you're just trash. You'd do anything for a buck. People like you deserve to rot."

It felt like he had said them only yesterday. It felt like he was saying them now. The prophecy was coming true.