Chapter 1The Ghost in the O.R.

Before I died, my parents cursed me every day.

My mother blamed me for stalling her career. "If I hadn't accidentally gotten pregnant with you, I would have been Chief of Surgery years ago."

My father blamed me for his business failures. "Ever since the day you were born, every investment I touch turns to ash. You are a jinx."

They only loved my older sister, Sarah. They said she was just like them—studious, quiet, and refined.

I, on the other hand, was like an unevolved primate in their eyes—always running wild, getting into fights, and embarrassing the family.

"What a waste of space," they would often sigh. "If we had just aborted her, this family would be perfect."

Eventually, they got their wish. I died.

* * *

It was 3:00 AM. I had exhausted every ounce of my strength, but I finally secured the encryption key needed to take down the cartel.

But the price was my cover. My identity as a bartender at the club was blown.

Fortunately, I managed to transmit the data just in time.

Before my SWAT team could breach the building, the cartel enforcers inflicted every torture imaginable on me.

They sawed off my limbs. They flayed my skin strip by strip, keeping me just on the edge of consciousness so I would feel everything.

I ground my teeth together to keep from screaming until they shattered in my mouth.

Finally, the sirens wailed.

When the team secured the room, my Captain—a stoic giant of a man—rushed in. He scooped up what was left of my torso and wept openly. "Chloe, I’m sorry. We were too late."

"Don't sleep, Chloe. Hold on. The medics can fix this," he begged, his voice breaking.

I forced my bloodied eyes open. "Cap..." I whispered. "Donate my body. Anything that's left... give it to someone who needs it."

"And... don't tell my parents I died."

With those words, I managed a smile. I closed my eyes, satisfied.

I was rushed to the downtown Trauma Center. But the moment the gurney hit the hospital doors, my heart stopped for good.

Following my dying wish, the hospital immediately prepped for organ harvesting. My corneas were removed to be transplanted into a patient who had been on the waiting list for months. Without them, she would be permanently blind.

The patient was my sister, Sarah.

The lead surgeon was my mother.

She stood over my body with her team, bowing her head in a moment of silence for the donor.

Then, she coolly pulled back the sterile sheet to inspect the donor.

Even though she was a veteran doctor who had seen countless traumas, she gasped when she saw what was left of me.

"She was only twenty-four," she whispered behind her mask. "So young."

"This poor girl went through hell. If her parents saw her like this, it would kill them."

I floated above the operating table, watching her. I wanted to ask, "Mom, if you knew this was me—your own daughter—would you still feel sorry?"

But I was dead. I couldn't ask.