From Wife to Blood Bag

Chapter 3

I raised my hand to silence the man's incessant chatter, my fingers idly tracing the edge of the medical report.

"Give me three more days."

The door swung open just as I hung up the phone.

Xavier Thorpe walked in, catching the tail end of the smile still lingering on my lips.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he saw me, but then he remembered—he had promised Natalie Reynolds he'd hurry back to help her settle in for an afternoon nap.

"Emergency at the company," he muttered, grabbing his files without sparing me a glance.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

But he never did.

Not once that entire week.

Instead, his social media was flooded with saccharine updates of his life with Natalie—candlelit dinners at fancy restaurants, mid-air kisses on a private jet, close-ups of her growing baby bump.

On the day I was discharged, Xavier posted again.

A hot air balloon photo, him kneeling to kiss Natalie's swollen belly, captioned: "Awaiting our little miracle."

I left a congratulatory comment and booked a flight.

As I walked down the maternity ward hallway, I ran into them.

A nurse giggled, "Mrs. Thorpe, you're so lucky! Mr. Thorpe always warms the ultrasound gel for you himself."

My fingers instinctively brushed my flat stomach.

Three months ago, after the car crash, I had called Xavier from a pool of my own blood—only to see Natalie, swinging a riding crop on screen.

"Mr. Thorpe is busy with a punishment game~"

When he finally called back, he had an arm around a teary-eyed Natalie, and spat at me, "Useless. Couldn't even keep the baby. Why didn't the crash finish you off?"

"Stop." Xavier's voice sliced through my thoughts as I tried to slip past them.

Natalie immediately clung to his arm.

"Let's take big sister home with us. After all… she's the one who donated blood for me."

Inside the black Maybach, I caught sight of lace panties under the seat.

Natalie gasped and buried herself against Xavier.

"This is your fault—you insisted on doing it here—"

Suddenly, Xavier snatched my phone from my hand.

"Who are you texting?"

"Just reading the news," I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady.

His face darkened as he typed in his birthday.

The lock screen's error chime echoed harshly in the car.

Nine years of marriage, and he still didn't know—the password was the date of that stormy night when he first told me he loved me.