— A human organ is not property! — Efimov cut him off sharply, with unconcealed contempt. — It’s not a commodity you can put in the refrigerator and use when it’s convenient for you.
Arina lay motionless, trying to comprehend what she was hearing through the haze of pain and shock. The document Arseny had made her sign to protect himself and gain control of the situation was now working against him. A bitter, terrible irony.
— To whom? — she whispered, her own voice seeming foreign, distant. — Who got my kidney?
Efimov turned to her, and his gaze softened.
— The recipient has given permission to disclose his identity to the donor. He wants to thank you personally. It’s Yaroslav Nikolaevich Golitsyn.
The name sounded in the cramped room like a thunderclap on a clear day. Arina didn’t know the man personally, but she had heard of him, like everyone in the city. The founder of the construction holding “Golitsyn Development,” owner of shopping centers and logistics complexes throughout the region, one of the wealthiest men in the area, written about in business publications and shown on the news. There were rumors he had disappeared from the public eye due to a serious illness, and here it was — the explanation.
Arseny’s legs gave way, and he grabbed the back of the neighboring patient’s bed to keep from falling. His lips moved, silently repeating the magnate’s name, and on his face, fear was replaced by anger, and anger by confusion. His textile factory with all its workshops was not even a utility room for a man of Golitsyn’s level.
— Yaroslav Nikolaevich’s assistant asked me to convey, — Efimov continued, now addressing only Arina, — that he would like to move you to a VIP suite. Golitsyn wants to personally thank the woman who saved his life.
Arina shifted her gaze to the trio at the door — to the people who just a minute ago were radiating triumphant arrogance, and now stood with faces stretched in horror. Arseny instantly changed his tactics, his voice becoming honeyed, pleading, so familiar and so disgusting.
— Arisha, darling, forget about those papers, it was a joke, a test, we got carried away… — He reached for her hand, and Arina pulled it away so sharply that the pain in her side shot through her body like a red-hot poker.
But she didn’t make a sound, just turned to the doctor and said in a voice she didn’t expect from herself — firm, calm, icy:
— Call security. There are unauthorized people here.
The security guards appeared within a minute. They led out a resisting Arseny, wheeled out the wheelchair with Alla Mikhailovna, who was hissing curses and threatening lawsuits, complaints, destruction. Yana trailed behind, her heels clicking on the linoleum, and the diamond ring on her finger no longer seemed so dazzling. The door closed behind them, and the room became quiet.
The transfer to a private room on the top floor took less than an hour. The contrast was so stark that Arina couldn’t immediately believe what was happening was real. A wide window with a city view, a leather sofa for visitors, a private shower, a TV on the wall. Golitsyn’s assistant, Platon Eduardovich Nikiforov — a fit, middle-aged man with attentive gray eyes and the manners of someone accustomed to solving any problem — informed her that all treatment and recovery expenses would be covered by the holding company.
— Why? — Arina asked, and tears flowed down her cheeks again, but this time they were different, not from pain or humiliation, but from the unbearable contrast between what she had endured and what was happening now.
— For Yaroslav Nikolaevich, your kidney is a second chance to see the sun rise over the region, — Nikiforov answered. — He always pays his debts. Always.
A week later, when Arina could sit up without sharp pain, Roman Georgievich Nesterov, the head of the holding’s legal department, came to see her — an elderly man with the sharp gaze of a courtroom wolf who had seen hundreds of cases and won most of them. He laid out a folder of documents on the bedside table and spoke quietly but forcefully, weighing every word.
— Your husband made a mistake, Arina Kirillovna. During your two years of marriage, he registered assets in your name: a sewing workshop at the factory, a share in the factory, commercial premises in the city center, a country house. He wanted to protect the property from creditors and the tax authorities. He was confident that you would forever remain under his control.
Arina listened, not believing her own ears…
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