In Exchange of Her Heart

Chapter 1: Father

= Janine =

The bouquet trembled in my grasp; the delicate white roses intertwined with sprigs of baby’s breath stark against the vibrant blush of my bridesmaid’s gown. My heart, a heart that didn’t truly belong to me, hammered wildly against my ribs, betraying the serene mask I struggled to hold in place.

The faint groan of the wooden door ahead snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. I lifted my gaze just as the grand doors swung open, revealing an aisle dressed in ethereal beauty—lined with cascading blooms and the warm glow of flickering candles. The opening chords of the wedding march began to play, soft yet unyielding, nudging me forward like an unseen force.

I inhaled deeply, stealing a glance at the man by my side—her father, our…father. Richard Carter’s expression radiated pride, his smile the perfect picture of paternal devotion as he prepared to walk his daughter down the aisle. Yet, beneath the veneer of familial joy lay a tangled truth that no one in this room could guess.

Because I wasn’t the bride, they thought I was.

The click of my heels on the polished marble floor echoed faintly, a steady cadence against the crescendo of whispers and muffled breaths from the gathered guests. Their eyes followed me, some with warmth, others with curiosity, and still others with the faintest hint of envy. I recognized their faces in a fleeting way, the hazy recollections of how I met them one by one. They were strangers wearing the masks of familiarity, a detail I was supposed to understand. Supposed to remember.

Pretending to be her—Eleanor—was a performance I had rehearsed countless times, but no amount of preparation could rid me of the unease coiled in my chest. The weight of this deception felt heavier with every step I took, each one dragging me closer to the man who waited at the altar.

Alexander Kingsley. My groom. Or more truthfully, Eleanor’s.

I bit the inside of my cheek, grounding myself as a flood of memories surged unbidden. Every moment of the last year—every painstakingly curated conversation, every stolen glance, every calculated move—rushed to the forefront of my mind. Each one a thread in the web I’d spun. A web that now felt ready to unravel under the scrutiny of so many watchful eyes.

But there was no turning back. Only forward. Toward him. Toward the culmination of the lie that bound us all.

I could still clearly remember that day. When the sky outside my hospital window was a brilliant shade of blue, stretching endlessly above me.

Wisps of clouds floated lazily across its expanse, shifting and stretching like dreams that refused to stay still. It was the kind of sky that made me wonder what it would be like to fly—like the birds that darted through the air, unburdened by the constraints of gravity or… failing hearts.

I could hear their cheerful chirping faintly through the glass, as though they were mocking me with their freedom. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at my lips as I imagined myself with wings, soaring above the clouds. How incredible would it be to leave this hospital bed behind and explore the world from up there? To look down at cities, mountains, and rivers, to touch the heavens and let the wind carry me anywhere I wished?

But I knew better than to linger on those thoughts. Dreams like that weren’t for someone like me. My chest tightened—not from emotion, but from the all-too-familiar weight of my heart's failing rhythm.

For as long as I can remember, my world has been split between two realms: home and the hospital. The sterile whiteness of these walls has been a constant in my life since I was five years old, and the unyielding rhythm of monitors provided the soundtrack to a childhood spent more in confinement than in exploration.

At first, I kept count of the days spent here versus those at home, clinging to the hope that one would outweigh the other. But over time, the tally lost its meaning. It all blurred together, a life measured in appointments, tests, and fleeting moments of normalcy.

At five, I was diagnosed with heart failure. Even as a child, I understood the gravity of it, though the words were cloaked in soft voices and reassurances. While other kids played tag, climbed trees, and raced through their limitless days, I sat by a window, watching their world unfold from a distance. My mother would sit beside me, her voice weaving tales of enchanted kingdoms and daring heroes, her stories a lifeline to a reality I couldn’t reach. She would smile, promising that one day, I’d be well enough to leave all this behind, and we’d explore the world together.

But promises have a way of fading, no matter how brightly they shine at first.

By the time I reached twenty-two, my condition had worsened to stage D heart failure—the final stage. My heart, battered and frail, could no longer sustain me without constant intervention. Medications and machines provided temporary reprieve, but they were only stopgaps. A transplant was my only real chance at survival, my final lifeline in an ever-dimming future.

For two years, my mother and I scoured every resource, exhausting every avenue in our search for a donor. We contacted hospitals, transplant programs, and anyone who might help us beat the impossible odds. But the doctors always said my case was “exceptional,” their careful wording a thin veil for the truth: finding a match was nearly impossible.

And then, two weeks ago, something happened—what I thought was a miracle.

The day my doctor walked into my hospital room, his rare smile immediately caught my attention. For years, I’d only known him as the calm, serious professional who had guided me through countless appointments, but today, his demeanor carried something different—hope.

“A heart has been found,” he announced, his voice steady but laced with excitement.

I froze, the weight of his words settling over me like a tidal wave.

A… heart.

After years of waiting, imagining, and holding on to the fragile thread of possibility, it was finally happening. The chance to breathe deeply without pain, to feel the strength return to my limbs, to live a life beyond these pale walls—it was within reach. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or both.

But that joy was fleeting.

Later that same day, the hospital admitted a new patient: Marie. She was eight years old, with eyes that sparkled brighter than the stars and a heart bigger than her tiny frame could seem to hold. I’d met her months ago during one of her regular check-ups, and she’d instantly become like a little sister to me. Marie was a dreamer, always sharing her imaginary worlds and plans for the future. Her laughter echoed through the sterile hallways, a small rebellion against the sickness that sought to take her joy.

Marie had suffered a heart attack. The news hit me like a gut punch: she was critical, and her only chance of survival was a transplant. The same heart that had been destined for me matched hers perfectly.

My doctor explained the situation with the gentle authority I’d come to rely on. His words were clear, his compassion evident. I didn’t need much time to think. The answer was obvious, even if it ached in a way I couldn’t yet comprehend. Marie was just a child, with dreams and years ahead of her. How could I take that from her?

I told my doctor to give her the heart.

When I broke the news to my mother, her reaction was raw and immediate. She cried, shouted, and begged me to reconsider.

“You’ve waited so long,” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. But she knew me better than anyone. She understood that once my mind was set, there was no turning back.

Eventually, her anger dissolved into heartbreak. She pulled me into her arms, holding me so tightly I thought her embrace might stitch together the pieces of us both. Through her tears, she whispered, “I understand. I’m proud of you... even if it hurts more than I can say.”

And so, I let go of the chance I’d waited for, the future I’d dared to envision. Because some lives are simply worth more than our own. And Marie’s was one of them.

It had been seven days since Marie’s surgery, a span of time that felt both endless and fleeting. The doctors had declared the operation a success, and while I hadn’t yet visited her, the nurses assured me she was on the mend. Their words offered a peculiar solace, a fragile comfort that I clung to.

And yet, unease lingered like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts. A persistent, unspoken question gnawed at me: What if that heart had been mine? How different would my world look now? How different would I be?

I exhaled sharply, willing the thought away. Dwelling on it felt selfish, a betrayal of Marie’s hard-won second chance. Leaning back against the unforgiving hospital pillows, I let my gaze wander to the window. The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding soft hues of pink and gold into the drifting clouds.

“Maybe in another life,” I murmured, my fingers idly tracing unseen shapes on the thin blanket covering my legs. The words felt weightless, a thought released into the vast expanse of possibility.

A soft knock at the door drew me from my reverie.

“Miss Carter?”

I turned, startled by the voice, to see a nurse standing in the doorway. She was young, her kind eyes holding a warmth that softened the clinical starkness of her uniform. A clipboard rested under one arm, but her focus was entirely on me.

“You have a visitor,” she said, her smile gentle but full of purpose.

I frowned, caught off guard.

A visitor?

That couldn’t be right. My mother wasn’t due to arrive until later this evening, and besides her, there wasn’t anyone else who might show up unannounced.

Before I could press for an explanation, a tall man entered the room. He exuded an air of authority, his tailored suit perfectly fitted to his lean frame. Straight-backed and composed, he carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to command. His dark hair was streaked with silver, lending him an air of distinguished elegance, but it was his eyes—piercing blue and unrelentingly intense—that immediately held my attention. I instinctively straightened in my seat, unsettled by his presence.

“Hello, Janine,” he greeted me, his voice smooth yet unfamiliar.

I blinked, a wave of confusion washing over me. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, but it lacked warmth, a formality rather than a gesture of kindness. He stepped forward, each deliberate movement punctuated by the soft click of polished shoes against the floor.

“No,” he admitted, his tone calm and measured. “We’ve never met. But I’ve been searching for you for quite some time.”

I stared at him, his words sinking in like a stone dropped into still water, rippling with questions. “Why? Who are you?”

His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something fleeting—regret, perhaps, or was it sorrow? For a heartbeat, the mask of his composure faltered.

“My name is Richard Carter,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “I’m your father.”

The words hit me like a tidal wave, pulling the breath from my lungs and leaving me adrift.

My… father?