Greg Monroe signed off on the matching donor heart I'd waited seven long years for, giving it to the daughter of his unrequited first love, Athena Johnson. A doctor I'd worked with for ages in the department scowled, his eyebrows knit so tight they looked ready to snap, voice sharp with frantic urgency. "Director Monroe, have you lost your mind? What about Sloane Gray? She's got end-stage heart failure, and she's pregnant right now. This matching heart was her only shot after seven years of waiting. If she doesn't get this transplant right now, her body will never hold up through the end of her pregnancy!" Greg stood outside the ICU, staring at the little girl on a ventilator inside. He said nothing for a long, heavy beat before he opened his mouth. "Anna is Athena's only child. She's too small—her heart won't make it through the winter. Sloane can hold on a little longer with meds. She can wait for the next match." His colleague slammed his fist against the wall in fury. "But Sloane's already five months pregnant! You're the top cardiothoracic surgeon in the field—you know better than anyone how deadly mid-term pregnancy is for a woman with heart failure. If she goes into acute heart failure, both she and the baby will die!" Not a flicker of hesitation crossed Greg's face. He just snapped the patient file shut, tone ice-cold. "Then she can get an abortion first. She's always been so reasonable. She'll understand why I did this." I stood frozen in the shadow of the corner, crumpling my fresh prenatal report in my fist so hard my knuckles burned. It said both my twins were developing perfectly. A sudden, sharp tightness seized my chest, and the pain was so bad I could barely breathe. This was the same Greg who'd held me through the night when my angina flared up, his eyes raw with worry, swearing he'd tear the entire healthcare system apart if that's what it took to find me a matching heart. And this was the same Greg who'd just ripped my only shot at living right out of my hands for Athena's daughter, without even bothering to ask me what I thought first. The line on the report that read Recommend scheduling surgery as soon as possible felt like a loud, cracking slap across my face, hard enough to make my ears ring. I dragged in a ragged breath of cold, stinging air, turned on my heel, and marched straight to obstetrics to book the earliest induced abortion appointment they had. Fine then. I'd give him exactly what he wanted. No baby. And no more him, either.