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."