My Billionaire Ex Just Donated His Kidey to Me Chapter 07
Don’t Let Me Hate You
Evangeline’s POV
The first thing I notice is the beeping.
Constant beeping that cuts right through my skull like a drill. My eyes feel glued shut, but I force them open anyway.
White ceiling. Bright lights. That gross hospital smell.
I try to sit up but my head pounds like hell. Sharp pain shoots through where I smacked the floor, and I fall back against the pillow.
My hand goes straight to my stomach. That’s when I see all the wires and tubes coming out of my arm. The heart monitor beeping next to my bed.
‘What the hell happened? How long was I out?‘
Through the glass window, I spot movement in the hallway. My heart stops dead.
Charles stands there holding some folder, his face. white as paper. There’s a doctor next to him waving his hands around while Marcus lurks nearby looking nervous as fuck, But Charles’s face. Jesus.
I’ve seen him pissed off. Scared. Even desperate. But I‘ ve never seen him look completely dead inside. Like
someone sucked out his soul and left an empty shell.
The folder in his hands shakes while the doctor keeps talking. Charles nods a couple times, but his eyes are just… gone.
‘He knows. Shit, he knows about the baby. About everything.‘
Like he can feel me staring, Charles turns his head slowly. Our eyes meet through the glass and I watch something shatter inside him. His face crumples, his whole body sags, and for a second I think he might just collapse in the hallway.
The look he gives me isn’t angry.
It’s pure guilt. The kind that eats you alive.
Charles shuts his eyes, takes this shaky breath, and says something to the doctor. The guy nods and heads for my room.
“Ms. Thorne.” Dr. Martinez pushes through the door with two nurses behind him. “Good, you’re awake. We need to get you to surgery right now.”
“Surgery?” My voice sounds like sandpaper. “What surgery?”
But I already know. The way he won’t look at me says everything.
“We need to perform an emergency procedure to address complications from your condition.”
The nurses start moving my bed, getting ready to wheel me out. Panic hits me like a truck.
“No! Wait!” I try to sit up but my body feels like jello.
You’re taking the baby, aren’t you? You can’t take my baby!”
“Ms. Thorne, please stay calm.”
“I am fucking calm!” But I’m not. I’m losing my shit.
My hands fly to my belly, trying to protect what’s left.
“You can’t do this without asking me!”
The bed starts rolling, wheels squeaking on the floor.
Through the doorway I see Charles still standing there, staring at his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.
“Charles!” My voice cracks as we roll past him. “Don’t do this! Please, don’t take our baby!”
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even twitch.
“He’s all I have left! Charles, please!”
The surgery doors are right ahead. I twist around, desperate to see him one more time.
“Look at me! Just look at me!”
But he won’t. He can’t.
The doors start closing and I scream the only words that might save us:
“Don’t let me hate you, Charles! Please don’t make me hate you!”
The doors slam shut. Bright surgical lights blind me.
A nurse leans over with a needle and I know it’s over.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper to my stomach, tears everywhere. “Mommy picked the wrong guy. I couldn‘t save you.”
The drugs drag me under.
When I wake up, Audrey’s sitting next to my bed crying.
She’s still in yesterday’s clothes. Her perfect blonde hair looks like crap and there’s mascara all down her face.
My hand goes to my stomach before I’m fully awake. The flatness there tells me everything.
“The baby?” I whisper, even though I know.
Audrey starts crying harder. “Evie…”
“You idiot!” She suddenly grabs my hand so hard it hurts. “Why didn’t you tell me about the kidney thing? If I knew how bad you were, I would’ve dragged your ass to Switzerland that night!”
Her accent gets thick when she’s upset, words spilling out fast and angry.
“That piece of shit! He took a call from her and ran off, then came back and made this choice while you were knocked out!”
I stare at the ceiling, feeling nothing. Empty. Like they took out more than just the baby.
“Audrey,” I say quietly, still touching my flat belly. Get me out of here. I don’t want to see him anymore.”
“Already done.” She wipes her nose. “We leave today. I set everything up.”
I nod. My eyes are dry. No more tears left.
Eight hours later we’re at the airport. Audrey works fast when she’s motivated. Medical clearance, private jet, Swiss doctors. She handled everything.
“The doctors in Switzerland are amazing,” she says, helping me into a wheelchair. “They’ll fix you up.”
“I know. Thanks.”
I watch the sunset through the terminal windows.
Pretty and fake, like everything else here.
As the plane takes off, I press my face to the tiny window and watch the Bay Area lights get smaller and smaller.
‘Bye, Charles. Bye to all of it.‘
I close my eyes and don’t open them till we land.
Two months later, I’m working behind the counter of a small bakery in some Swiss village I can barely pronounce.
The recovery was incredible, honestly. I feel stronger than I have in years. The kidney transplant went perfect. Audrey found a donor so fast it seemed impossible, though she swears it wasn’t her doing. I know better, but I’m grateful anyway.
I used my company money to open this place. Nothing fancy. Just warm lights, mismatched tables, and fresh bread smell everywhere. I wear a flour–covered apron most days, hair in a ponytail. It’s simple. Peaceful.
Funny how life comes full circle. Charles and I used to dream about opening a bakery together when we were kids. We’d spend hours rating different breads from the local shops – this one’s delicious but won’t fill you up, that one tastes like cardboard but keeps you full for hours.
I shake my head, forcing the memories away.
Morning rush is over and I’m arranging croissants when something on the TV catches my ear.
“We’re pleased to welcome tech CEO Charles Cross to discuss his recent business successes…”
My hands freeze. I shouldn’t look. Should change the channel or turn it off.
But I can’t help glancing up.
Charles appears on screen and I can’t breathe. He looks awful. Skinny face, dead eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. The expensive suit can’t hide how much weight he lost.
‘You look like shit,‘ I think, and I hate that I still care.
The news about the Blackwood family hit even this tiny village. The day after I got to Europe, their whole empire crashed overnight. Fraud charges, insider trading, decades of dirty dealing finally caught up. Charles somehow got all their stuff in the mess.
Seraphina and her family? Some reports said prison. Others whispered suicide. Either way, none of them had happy endings.
No engagement announcement. No wedding. Just total destruction.
‘At least he got his revenge,‘ I thought when I first heard. But looking at him now, I wonder what it cost him.
The interviewer asks about some acquisition. Charles starts answering but halfway through, he wavers.
His face goes white. His hand grips the chair.
Then he collapses.
The studio goes crazy. Camera guys scrambling, producers yelling, medical people rushing in. In all the chaos, someone grabs Charles’s shirt wrong,
pulling it up while they try to help.
That’s when I see it.
A surgical scar across his lower stomach. Fresh, pink, still healing.
Just like mine.
The croissant drops from my hands and hits the floor.
‘Where the fuck did that come from?‘
I’ve seen Charles shirtless hundreds of times. I know every inch of him, every mark, every scar. That was never there before.
And it looks exactly like mine. Same length, same spot, same surgical precision of a kidney transplant.
My hand moves to my own scar under the apron. A crazy thought starts forming, too insane to be real.
But the proof is right there on the screen.
I spend the rest of the day in a fog, burning bread and dropping things. Every few minutes I check my phone for updates on Charles. The news is vague. “Sudden collapse,” “exhaustion,” “admitted for observation.”
Nothing about kidneys. Nothing about surgery.
But I know what I saw.
Evening comes and I’m locking up when the door bursts open. A man stumbles in, desperate and messy.
Marcus.
Charles’s assistant looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His perfect suit is wrinkled, his hair a disaster, his eyes red and wild.
When he sees me, he almost collapses with relief.
“Ms. Thorne! Thank God I found you!”
“Marcus?” I stare at him in shock, my keys hitting the floor. “How did you… what are you doing here?”
“Please,” he gasps, like he might fall over. “You have to come back! You have to save him!”
THE END