The nurse’s hands shook around the plastic syringe. She stared at my bruised arm, then shot a panicked glance toward the doorway.

"Mrs. Damien is six months pregnant," the nurse said, her voice wavering. "She has already donated blood twice this month. We can't take another four hundred milliliters."

Dr. Amelia stepped in front of the medical cart, blocking the nurse. "I am stepping in as her attending physician. Continuing to draw blood will cause placental bleeding. She and the baby will both be in severe danger."

Damien stood perfectly still by the glass partition. He didn't even look in our direction. His dark eyes remained locked on the intensive care unit, where Celeste lay unconscious amidst a tangle of tubes and wires.

"Draw the blood," Damien commanded. His tone offered zero room for debate.

"Mr. Damien, you aren't listening to me," Dr. Amelia argued, her jaw set tight. "This could induce premature labor. You might lose your child."

"Draw it." Damien’s voice dropped to a freezing register.

Cold sweat broke across my forehead. I wrapped my left arm over my swollen belly and reached out with my right. My fingertips snagged the crisp fabric of his tailored suit sleeve.

"Damien... please," I begged. "The baby has been moving less since yesterday. Something feels wrong."

He finally turned his head. His gaze swept over my pale face, registering my fear, and discarded it completely. He grabbed my wrist and peeled my fingers off his sleeve, one by one.

"Celeste can't wait," he said.

Dr. Amelia opened her mouth to protest again, but Damien’s glare silenced her. The nurse swallowed hard, swabbing the crook of my arm with alcohol. The needle pierced my vein. I squeezed my eyes shut as the crimson fluid began traveling down the clear tube into the plastic bag.

My vision blurred. A wave of dizziness hit me, and my free hand brushed against the silver chain resting on my collarbone. My thumb traced the familiar, jagged grooves of the broken iris pendant.

"I will find you," a boy covered in blood had promised me years ago, squeezing my hand just as tightly as I now gripped the chair's armrest. "When I grow up, I'll find you."

He was standing right in front of me. And he didn't remember a thing.

***

"All done." The nurse pulled the needle out and pressed a thick cotton pad to my skin.

She helped me into a wheelchair. I slumped against the synthetic leather backrest, completely drained of energy. My hand remained firmly planted over my womb, waiting for a flutter, a kick, anything.

Nothing happened.

The heavy double doors of the ICU slid open.

Damien walked straight past my wheelchair. The draft from his movement chilled my bare arms. He stepped to Celeste's bedside and took her pale hand in both of his.

"You're safe now," he murmured.

Celeste’s eyelids fluttered. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, tracking down her temple.

"Damien," she rasped. "I thought I would never see you again."

He leaned over, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. "I'm right here. I won't let anything happen to you."

The tenderness in his expression pinned me to my seat. In two years of marriage, he had never looked at me like that. Not once.

I lowered my head, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. The terms of our marriage contract echoed in my ringing ears. Two years ago, my adoptive father lay dying, our family company bankrupt. I had been desperately searching for my biological family, hitting dead end after dead end.

Damien had offered a lifeline. He would pay the medical bills and use the Damien family's vast resources to find my real parents. In return, I would act the perfect wife for his grandfather and give the Damien bloodline an heir.

I knew it was a transaction. But I signed it anyway, foolishly hoping the boy from my past would eventually recognize the girl who saved him.

***

Sharp footsteps smacked aggressively against the hospital floor, growing louder. Eleanor Damien rounded the corner, flanked by two assistants in matching gray suits.

My mother-in-law stopped in front of my wheelchair. Her eyes darted from my ashen face to the fresh bandage on my arm. Her nose wrinkled in blatant disgust.

"Only four hundred milliliters?" Eleanor asked.

She pointed an immaculate fingernail at the half-filled backup bag resting on the cart. "Is that all you can do for Celeste?"

I gripped the armrests to steady myself. "Dr. Amelia said I can't lose any more blood."

"Excuse me?" Eleanor scoffed. "You're carrying a Damien child. That means your body, your blood, and the baby all belong to this family. You don't make the rules."

She snapped her fingers. An assistant handed her a thick file. Eleanor tossed it directly onto my lap. It hit my thighs with a heavy thud.

"Sign the long-term medical authorization," she demanded. "Whenever Celeste needs blood, you will be on call. Day or night."

"I am your daughter-in-law, not a blood bank," I said, my voice trembling.

"You are whatever we need you to be," Eleanor shot back.

I shifted in the chair, and the folder slipped off my lap. As it fell, the neckline of my hospital gown shifted. The silver chain escaped, exposing the broken iris pendant to the harsh fluorescent lights.

Eleanor’s gaze locked onto the metal flower. The color drained from her face entirely. She took a quick step back, staring at the necklace for a long, silent moment.

Then, her features hardened into a cruel mask. "Such cheap trash," she sneered. "Is it worth wearing for so many years?"

***

I leaned forward to pick up the scattered papers from the floor.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen. It felt like a knife twisting directly into my womb.

"Ah!" I cried out.

My hands flew to my stomach. The room spun wildly. I lost my balance and slid off the edge of the wheelchair. My knees slammed into the hard tiles.

A terrifying warmth soaked the fabric between my thighs, dripping down my calves. Dark red drops splattered onto the pristine white floor, pooling instantly.

The nurse dropped her clipboard. "Doctor! She's bleeding! Get a gurney out here now!"

At the sound of the shout, Damien whipped his head around. He saw me clutching my stomach, the blood spreading around my knees. His shoulders tensed. He took one quick step toward the door.

*Beep. Beep. BEEEEEEEEEP.*

The heart monitor inside the ICU flatlined, emitting a shrill, continuous alarm.

A frantic nurse shoved the glass doors open, nearly colliding with Damien. "Mr. Damien! Miss Monroe's condition is worsening! Her heart rate is dropping rapidly!"

Damien stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at my tear-stained face, then at the chaotic scene unfolding around Celeste's bed.

He hesitated for a single second.

Then he turned his back on me and bolted into the ICU, the glass doors sliding shut behind him.

I lay on the freezing floor, watching his broad back disappear. The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. My trembling fingers pressed against my damp clothes.

*As long as you play the part of Mrs. Damien, I will protect you and the child.*

His promise from our wedding day mocked me. I finally understood. His protection never included choosing me over Celeste. It never would.

My vision faded to black at the edges. I closed my eyes, letting the tears slide into my hairline.

"Baby..." I choked out, my voice barely a whisper against the tile. "I'm sorry."

The edges of my consciousness frayed. Just before the darkness swallowed me whole, a pair of polished black dress shoes stepped into my fading line of sight, stopping inches from my pooling blood.

"Well, well," an unfamiliar male voice chuckled above me. "Looks like my brother just threw away his most valuable asset."

The harsh click of the emergency room sign shutting off echoed down the sterile corridor. I sat slumped in a wheelchair, a thin hospital blanket draped over my trembling knees.

Dr. Amelia pushed through the swinging doors. She ripped her surgical mask off, her face tight with exhaustion.

"Mrs. Damien is out of danger for now," Dr. Amelia announced, marching straight up to Damien. "But she suffered a threatened miscarriage and severe anemia. Her body cannot sustain another blood draw."

Damien stood by the window. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

"Her iron levels are critically low," Dr. Amelia added, crossing her arms. "The placenta is under extreme stress. Another drop in her blood volume will trigger early labor. The fetus won't survive."

"I understand," Damien replied, his voice flat.

"I need to make this absolutely clear," Dr. Amelia pressed on, stepping directly into his line of sight. "If you force her to give blood again, the next time you won't just lose the child. You might lose her life."

Silence stretched across the hallway. I gripped the plastic armrests of my chair. I waited for him to show a shred of concern. I waited for him to look at me.

He didn't.

Damien shifted his gaze over the doctor’s shoulder, anchoring his attention on the ICU doors at the far end of the hall. "How is Celeste?"

Dr. Amelia froze. She stared at him in pure disbelief. "Your wife just nearly lost her child."

A muscle feathered along Damien’s jawline. "I heard you."

"Then how can you—"

"When will Celeste wake up?" Damien interrupted. His tone held zero warmth, zero empathy.

I let out a dry, cracked laugh. The sound scraped against my own throat, startling the nearby nurses. Dr. Amelia turned to look at me, her eyes filled with deep pity. She finally realized that my husband's coldness was far more blinding than the surgical lights inside the operating room.

***

Ten minutes later, a nurse wheeled me down the hall. We stopped outside the ICU glass partition just as Celeste’s eyelids fluttered open.

Damien shoved the double doors open and strode straight to her bedside.

"I'm sorry," Celeste whispered. The intercom speaker above the window crackled, carrying her fragile voice into the hallway. "I caused so much trouble. Aria must hate me."

Tears spilled over her pale cheeks, soaking into her pillow.

"I didn't mean to take your attention away from her," Celeste continued, her voice trembling. "She's carrying your child, Damien. You should be with her. I can manage on my own."

Damien reached out. His large hand enveloped hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"You don't have to apologize," he said. His voice dropped to a gentle, soothing pitch I had never heard before. "You saved my life when we were young. I won't let anything happen to you."

I pressed my palm against my chest. My fingers curled around the broken silver iris pendant hidden beneath my hospital gown. The jagged metal dug sharply into my skin.

Fifteen years ago, the smell of burning rubber and gasoline choked the air. I dragged a bleeding boy from a wrecked car. I slashed my own wrist with a piece of shattered glass to feed him my blood when he was dying of thirst. I pressed half of this very pendant into his palm before the darkness swallowed me.

When I woke up, my adoptive parents had moved me away.

Years later, Celeste appeared with the other half of the necklace. She claimed the scars, the rescue, the credit. I tried to tell him the truth once. He looked at Celeste’s pendant and called me a liar.

A tiny, fluttering kick tapped against my palm resting on my stomach.

I stared through the glass at my husband comforting the thief who stole my past. It wasn't that no one knew the truth. It was that Damien simply didn't want to believe me.

***

"Sign it."

Eleanor Damien stepped into my line of sight, blocking the window. She dropped a thick manila folder directly onto my lap. The bold black letters on the cover read *Long-Term Medical Authorization*.

I flipped the cover open. My eyes scanned the highlighted clause: *Unconditional provision of blood and related medical cooperation.*

I pushed the folder off my lap. It hit the linoleum floor with a loud smack. "I won't sign."

Eleanor’s perfectly manicured hands curled into fists. Her lips thinned into a cruel line. "Don't forget why you were allowed to marry into the Damien family. Without Damien paying your adoptive father’s medical bills, without our resources investigating your background, you are nothing."

I lifted my chin, meeting her furious glare. "I agreed to a marriage. I didn't agree to sell my life."

"Your adoptive father is still in our private facility," Eleanor reminded me, her tone laced with venom. "Do you want us to halt his treatments? Because I can make one phone call right now."

"You wouldn't," I whispered.

"Try me," she challenged.

Heavy footsteps approached from the ICU. Damien stopped beside his mother, his dark suit impeccable, his expression unreadable.

"Tell her to sign the agreement," Eleanor snapped, pointing a finger at the fallen folder.

Damien looked down at me. His dark eyes flicked to my collarbone, pausing on the silver iris pendant resting against my pale skin. A brief flash of confusion crossed his features. He tilted his head, as if a buried memory tried to claw its way to the surface.

Then he blinked, erasing the emotion completely.

"Sign it," he ordered.

I stared up at the man I had loved since I was a child. "What if the next blood draw kills the baby?"

Damien held my gaze. His expression remained utterly blank. "The doctors will manage the risk."

The last fragments of my hope shattered.

***

I didn't sign the papers. I pushed myself up from the wheelchair, ignoring the sharp pull in my lower abdomen, and walked away from them.

The hospital lobby buzzed with frantic activity. I leaned against a cool marble pillar near the main entrance, trying to catch my breath. A group of Damien Group executives stood near the reception desk, clutching extravagant bouquets and designer gift bags.

"I heard she almost miscarried just now," a man in a navy suit muttered, glancing in my direction.

"She just drew a little blood. She's acting like she's dying," a blonde woman replied, rolling her eyes.

"Did you see the necklace she wears? Looks like cheap junk."

"She's from a bankrupt family. What do you expect? She doesn't belong in our world."

"She only got to stay by Mr. Damien's side to act as Miss Monroe's blood supply."

"Exactly. Once Miss Monroe recovers, this temporary wife will have to step down."

I stopped walking. My fingernails bit into the tender flesh of my palms, leaving deep crescent-shaped indents.

I didn't turn around. I didn't argue. I just kept walking toward the revolving glass doors. The rumors were right. In two years of marriage, Damien had never announced me to the public. I was a ghost in his house, a shadow in his life, and a walking blood bank for the woman he truly loved.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out. A text message from Claire Morgan, Damien’s executive secretary, lit up the cracked screen.

*Mr. Damien wants you at the company. Immediately. Bring the original marriage agreement.*

I stared at the glowing letters. The cold from the hospital floor seemed to seep straight through my shoes, freezing my blood.

He wanted the agreement.

He wanted a divorce.

The glass doors of Damien Group headquarters slid shut behind me, sealing out the city noise. I pressed my left hand over my stomach. A dull ache still throbbed low in my pelvis, a brutal reminder of the threatened miscarriage just an hour ago. The cotton bandage on my right arm pulled tight against my skin with every step. Inside my worn leather purse, the yellowed edges of my marriage agreement brushed against my knuckles.

I walked toward the elevators. A receptionist stepped out from behind the massive marble desk, throwing her arm out to block my path.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"I'm here to see Damien," I replied.

She looked me up and down. Her gaze snagged on my plain wool coat and unbranded bag. A smirk touched the corner of her mouth. "Mr. Damien is entertaining an important guest. You cannot go up without clearance."

Whispers rippled through the nearby cluster of employees lounging in the waiting area.

"Isn't that Mrs. Damien?" a man in a gray suit murmured, pointing his coffee cup in my direction.

"I heard she was sent to the hospital after donating blood today," a woman replied. She didn't bother lowering her voice.

"So what? Mr. Damien still left with Miss Monroe."

"Look at her. She doesn't even look like a CEO's wife. More like a hired blood bank for the Damien family."

Laughter echoed off the high ceiling. I kept my mouth shut. I squeezed the strap of my bag. They mocked my cheap clothes, completely unaware that the luxury gowns and diamond sets they worshipped in magazines were drafted by my own hands. I never cared for brands, only comfort.

The silver elevator doors chimed and parted. COO Victor Thorne strode into the lobby, trailed by three senior executives. He spotted me standing near the desk and immediately slowed his pace.

"Married for two years, and Mr. Damien has never acknowledged her publicly," Victor said to his team, projecting his voice across the marble floor.

"I heard she married him just to pay her father's hospital bills," one of the executives chimed in.

"Exactly. Once Miss Monroe recovers, she'll be out on the street where she belongs."

Victor veered slightly to his left. As he passed me, he slammed his shoulder directly into mine.

My knees buckled. Weak from the severe anemia, I staggered backward. My purse slipped off my shoulder, hitting the floor. The clasp popped open, spilling its contents across the polished tiles. My pregnancy report fluttered down next to an old, faded photograph.

In the picture, a ten-year-old girl stood in front of a sprawling manor, wearing a silver iris necklace. Only half of a man's figure remained visible beside her.

Victor stopped. He glanced down at the scattered items. He let out a harsh scoff. "Another fantasy of climbing the social ladder?"

He planted his leather shoe directly onto the edge of the photograph.

The temperature in my veins dropped to freezing. I knelt on the hard floor and grabbed the picture. I pulled it out from under his heel, wiping the dusty shoe print away with my thumb.

"Move your foot," I demanded.

Victor blinked. He stared at me, momentarily paralyzed by the absolute fury in my eyes.

Camera shutters clicked around us. Employees held up their phones, recording me crouching in the dirt.

The main entrance slid open again.

Damien walked in. Celeste walked right beside him. She wore a flowing white dress, enveloped in Damien’s oversized suit jacket. Though pale, she looked radiant, completely untouched by the chaos of the hospital.

The entire lobby stood at attention.

"Good morning, Miss Monroe," the employees chorused.

Bouquets of flowers appeared from behind the reception desk. Applause broke out. They treated her like the true mistress of the Damien empire returning to her throne.

Celeste walked past the clapping crowd and stopped in front of me. Her eyes darted to the old photograph in my hand, then to the silver iris pendant resting against my collarbone. Panic flashed across her features. She swallowed hard, quickly replacing the fear with a sickly sweet smile.

"Aria, are you feeling better?" Celeste asked. "I've been so worried about you."

I stood up, clutching the photo to my chest. "Are you worried about me, or worried you won't have a blood supply later?"

Tears instantly welled in Celeste’s eyes. She bit her lower lip, trembling as if I had struck her.

Damien stepped between us. His jaw tightened.

"Aria," he warned.

It was the first time he looked directly at me since we left the emergency room. "Don't start."

He wrapped a protective arm around Celeste’s shoulders. The sight extinguished the very last ember of warmth in my heart.

***

Thirty minutes later, I stood in the center of the CEO's office.

Eleanor sat on the leather sofa, her legs crossed. She pushed two thick folders across the glass coffee table. One was the long-term medical authorization. The other read *Early Termination of Marriage Agreement*.

"Tomorrow night is the Damien Foundation Charity Gala," Eleanor announced. "Celeste will attend as Damien's partner."

I opened the second folder. The bold text demanded I move out of the Damien estate immediately after the gala. It also stripped away all my custody rights to the baby.

My fingers dug into the paper. "What about me?"

Eleanor laughed. The sound grated against the quiet room. "You? Your job is to kneel and apologize to Celeste in front of all the guests. You will admit you refused to donate blood and worsened her condition. Then you will sign the papers and leave quietly."

I dropped the folder. I turned my head to look at my husband. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, bathed in the afternoon sun.

"You called me here just to force me to give up my child?" I asked.

Damien shifted his weight. He looked at the city skyline instead of my face. "The child is the Damien heir. Your health is poor. Staying with the family is safer for him."

A dry laugh tore from my throat. My eyes burned, but I refused to let a single tear fall. "Then what am I?"

Damien remained quiet. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

"Our marriage was always a transaction," he finally replied.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Two years of devotion. Two years of acting the perfect wife. To him, my love was just a worthless bonus attached to a business deal.

I closed the folder. I didn't pick up a pen. Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out my original marriage agreement.

"Fine," I said. "I'll attend the gala."

I turned toward the heavy oak door. My hand hovered over the brass handle.

"But after the gala," I said, glancing back at Damien one last time, "we are completely finished."

I walked out of the office and pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed a number I hadn't called in two years.

"It's Aria," I whispered into the receiver. "I'm ready to come home."