A Deal With The Devil’s Uncle

Amara Velasquez had always believed that love meant sacrifice. But she never imagined sacrifice would mean her own body. The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the faint hum of lunchtime chatter, the smell of coffee and antiseptic clinging to the air. Amara sat across from Darian Cruz, her fiancé — or at least, the man who still wore that title as carelessly as the designer watch on his wrist. He was scrolling through his phone, his jaw sharp, his expression unreadable. Even now, she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster when he looked up at her. “Amara,” he said finally, his tone cold but deliberate, “we need to talk.” Her hands tightened around the coffee cup. “You’re scaring me,” she murmured. “What’s wrong?” He set his phone down, eyes meeting hers. They were the same eyes she’d fallen in love with — rich brown, full of intensity — but something had changed. They weren’t tender anymore. They were calculating. “It’s about my mother,” he began. “The doctors said her kidney failure has worsened. She doesn’t have much time.” He exhaled slowly, as if preparing her for what came next. “She needs a transplant.” Amara’s heart squeezed. “Oh, Darian, I’m so sorry. What can I do?” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “You can give her one of yours.” For a second, she thought she’d misheard him. “What…?” “I’ve already checked — you’re a compatible donor,” he said smoothly, as if discussing a business transaction. “You’re healthy, and it’s a simple procedure. It would mean everything to me — to my family. Once she’s better, we can finally get married.” Amara froze. Her pulse roared in her ears. “You already checked?” she whispered. “Without asking me?” Darian frowned, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I was trying to save time. You always said you’d do anything for me. This is your chance to prove it.” Her breath hitched. The man she loved — the one who promised her forever — was asking her to mutilate herself just to earn his affection. “Darian,” she said softly, “I love your mother, but… this isn’t something you demand from someone you love.” He sighed, pushing back from the table. “You’re being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you to die. You’ll recover. We’ll get married right after. I’ve already talked to my father—” “Your father?” she cut in, voice shaking. “Everyone knows but me?” He stood, straightening his blazer. “You’re overreacting, Amara. If you really cared about this family, you’d do it. Think about what this means for our future.” Tears burned behind her eyes. “Or maybe this isn’t about love at all. Maybe it’s about convenience. About your image.” Darian’s expression hardened. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned to leave, then paused. “I’ll call you once you’ve thought it through. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” He walked away, leaving her sitting there — a ring on her finger, and a hollow ache in her chest where love used to live. For a long time, Amara didn’t move. The laughter of interns, the clatter of trays — it all blurred into nothing. Only one thought remained, cold and sharp in her mind: He didn’t love her. Not really. He only loved what she could give. When she finally rose to leave, her hands trembled. The coffee had gone cold. And so had her heart.