The Blood Bag's Billion-Dollar Revenge

The truffle in Seraphina's hand was worth more than the transmission in her battered Honda Civic. It was a black, knobby lump of fungus that smelled like damp earth and money. Her fingers trembled as she sliced it, the razor-sharp mandoline shaving off paper-thin discs that fell onto the marble counter like dark snow.

Her lower back throbbed. She had been standing in this kitchen for six hours.

"Thinner, Seraphina. God, do I have to teach you everything?"

Victoria Vance swept into the kitchen, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 warring with the scent of the truffles. She was dressed in a silver gown that shimmered like fish scales, her face pulled tight by a surgeon's skillful hand. She pinched a handkerchief to her nose, eyeing the stove with disdain.

"The gala starts in two hours," Victoria snapped, tapping a manicured nail against the granite. "If the appetizers aren't plated by the time the guests arrive, don't bother coming out of the kitchen. Not that anyone would notice. You look like a ghost."

Seraphina didn't look up. She focused on the rhythm. Slice. Slice. Slice. If she stopped, she might scream. If she screamed, she wouldn't stop screaming.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Victoria," Seraphina said, her voice raspy. She hadn't had water since noon.

"'Mother'," Victoria corrected sharply. "Or Mrs. Vance. Though how my son ended up with a gold-digging nobody from the backwoods is still the family tragedy of the decade."

Seraphina's hand slipped. The blade nicked her thumb. A bead of bright red blood welled up, stark against the black truffle.

She stared at it. It was just a drop. But in this house, blood was currency.

Her pocket buzzed against her hip. Once. Twice. A persistent, demanding vibration that made her stomach clench. She wiped her thumb on her apron and pulled out the phone.

Julian Vance.

Her heart did that stupid, treacherous stutter it always did when his name appeared. For a split second, she hoped. Maybe he was calling to ask if she was okay. Maybe he was coming home early to help her. Maybe, just once, he was calling as a husband.

She slid her thumb across the screen. "Julian?"

"Get to St. Luke's. Now."

His voice was a splash of ice water. No greeting. No warmth. Just the tone he used for his executive assistant when a merger was going south.

Seraphina gripped the phone tighter. "I... I'm making the appetizers for your mother's gala. I can't leave."

"Leave it," he barked. "Caroline fainted. Her hemoglobin is critically low. She needs a transfusion. The driver is already downstairs."

The air left the room. Seraphina looked down at her left arm, covered by the long sleeve of her cheap gray sweater. Underneath the fabric, the skin was a roadmap of bruises and needle marks. Scar tissue on top of scar tissue.

"Julian," she whispered, turning away from Victoria, who was watching with a shark-like grin. "It hasn't even been eight weeks. The Red Cross guidelines say-"

"I don't care about guidelines, Seraphina," Julian interrupted, his impatience vibrating through the speaker. "Dr. Smith says you're compatible and she's in crisis. Your anemia is manageable; her condition is fatal. Do the math."

Silence on the other end. A heavy, judgmental silence that weighed more than his shouting.

"She could die, Seraphina," Julian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "Are you really going to hold a grudge over a pint of blood? After everything we've done for you? After the life we gave you?"

The life you gave me.

A life of being a servant. A biological spare part.

"I'm not holding a grudge," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm holding onto consciousness. I can't do it."

"This is what you owe her," Julian cut in, sharp and final. "You signed the agreement. Don't make me send security up there to drag you down. Be at the hospital in twenty minutes."

The line went dead. The beep echoed in her ear, loud and mocking.

She lowered the phone, feeling the blood drain from her face. She felt light, untethered, as if gravity had suddenly decided she wasn't worth holding onto.

Buzz.

The phone vibrated again. A picture message. Unknown number.

Seraphina looked. She shouldn't have, but she looked.

It was a photo taken in a hospital room. Julian was sitting on the edge of a bed, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He was holding a slice of apple to a woman's lips. Caroline. She looked pale, fragile, ethereal-like a tragic heroine in a Victorian novel. But her eyes, looking straight at the camera, were dancing.

The text below it read:

He wouldn't even eat dinner with you, but he's feeding me. Thanks for the refill, blood bag.

Something inside Seraphina snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet, dry sound of a dead branch finally giving way under the weight of snow.

She looked at the truffles. She looked at the blood on her thumb. She looked at Victoria, who was checking her reflection in the back of a spoon.

"Well?" Victoria demanded, not looking around. "What did he want? Is that poor girl sick again? You better get going. We don't need you fainting in the soup."

Seraphina set the phone down on the marble. She reached behind her back and untied the apron strings.

The knot came loose. The fabric fell away from her body.

She picked up the apron, balled it up, and dropped it into the trash can. It landed with a soft thud on top of the potato peelings.

Victoria spun around. Her eyes went wide, the Botox straining against the shock. "What do you think you're doing?"

Seraphina walked to the foyer table. Her keys were there. Not keys to a Mercedes or a Bentley, but to a battered Honda Civic she'd bought with cash three years ago, before she became a Vance. Before she became a ghost.

"I asked you a question!" Victoria shrieked, her voice climbing an octave. "If you walk out that door, Seraphina, don't you dare think about coming back! You ungrateful little peasant!"

Seraphina paused at the heavy oak door. She turned. Her spine was straight, her chin lifted. For the first time in three years, she looked Victoria Vance in the eye.

"That's the plan," Seraphina said.

She pushed the door open. The cold November wind hit her face, biting and raw, and it felt like a baptism.

She walked to her car, got in, and locked the doors. Her hands were steady now. The trembling had stopped.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called since her wedding day.

"Mr. Henderson," she said when the voice answered. "It's Seraphina. Prepare the papers. I want a divorce. And if they contest it... burn them to the ground."

She hung up. Her fingers hovered over Julian's contact. She typed one last message.

On my way to the hospital. Bringing you a surprise.

She threw the phone onto the passenger seat and started the engine. The Honda sputtered, then roared to life. As she peeled out of the driveway, leaving the gilded cage of the Vance estate in her rearview mirror, she didn't feel fear.

She felt dangerous.