From Wife to Blood Bag

Chapter 9

The night was as dark as ink, the clock striking eleven.

When Xavier Thorpe finally opened his eyes, the sky outside was already dotted with stars.

A glass of lukewarm water sat on the bedside table, glimmering faintly in the moonlight. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, briefly mistaking the glow for a tender gesture I had left behind.

Sick and feverish, Xavier stumbled to his feet, his steps dragging heavily as he searched every corner of the vineyard estate.

At the top of the spiral staircase, the breeze from the rooftop carried the subtle scent of grapevines.

Xavier wiped the cold sweat from his brow, but froze when his gaze lifted—there, bathed in moonlight, was my figure, tangled in Patrick Evans' embrace. The sight pierced him like a knife to the heart.

"Let her go!"

He lunged forward, knocking over a wicker chair, his knuckles white as he grabbed Patrick by the collar.

The scent of medicine still clung to him, and I could see his sickly pale lips quiver.

"Sophia is my wife!"

Patrick easily twisted Xavier's grip free, his cold laugh slicing through the silence of the night.

"Wife? Funny how you only remember you're married now."

Before the words even finished leaving his mouth, Patrick's fist connected with Xavier's cheekbone.

"That's for Sophia."

Blood trickled from the corner of Xavier's mouth, but his gaze never wavered from me.

"He called you his fiancée?" His voice was a whisper, the moonlight catching on his trembling lashes.

"We're not divorced yet..."

"Need a reminder?" I flicked the 9-carat diamond ring on my finger, and immediately, Patrick tightened his arm around my waist.

"The day you signed the divorce papers was the same day Natalie went for her prenatal checkup."

Xavier swayed, as if the strength had drained from his body. He gripped the railing for support, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

The night wind lifted his thin shirt, revealing the faint outline of a tattoo on his collarbone—a parent-child sketch I had drawn before the miscarriage.

"Get out." My pearl earring gleamed coldly as I turned away.

"Don't dirty my vineyard."

For the next thirty days, the black Maybach stayed parked outside the estate gates.

Xavier stood like a statue, holding a bouquet of white roses, never leaving—dawn to dusk.

It wasn't until New Year's Eve, when the sky was lit up with fireworks, that Patrick finally shed his gentlemanly act.

"Copycat!" He slammed Xavier against a tree, rose petals scattering like broken glass.

"Nine years ago, you used fireworks to trick her into marriage. Trying the same stunt now?"

As the two men brawled in the snow, I couldn't take my eyes off the glowing screen of Xavier's phone.

Natalie's video call flashed repeatedly, casting light on the fresh stitches along his collarbone, where the Chinese characters for "atonement" were inked.

In the distance, sirens wailed.

Just before the paramedics carried him away, Xavier suddenly grabbed my wrist.

His palm burned with fever, and his voice was rough, like sandpaper.

"When I got the tattoo… I thought..." Blood dripped from his lips.

"If it hurt enough, maybe I'd dream of you."

The moment the hospital door closed behind him, the shrill alarm of medical equipment filled the air.

Patrick wiped the blood from his knuckles as I stared blankly out at the snow. In the backseat of that Maybach, unopened bottles of prenatal vitamins were stacked high.