The phone rang three days after I walked out of the bridal suite.
I was sitting at the kitchen table in my parents' house. My mother was making coffee. My father was reading the paper. The phone buzzed on the table between us.
Dorian's name lit up the screen.
I stared at it. Let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
My father looked up from his paper. He didn't say anything. Just looked.
I picked up the phone.
"Ella." Dorian's voice was tight. Fast. "You need to come to the hospital. Right now."
I didn't say anything.
"Reese is hemorrhaging," he said. "She's losing the baby. They need blood. Your type matches hers. You have to come."
I looked at the coffee cup in front of me. The steam rising. The dark surface.
"No," I said.
"What?"
"No."
"Ella, she's dying—"
"No," I said again.
I hung up.
My mother turned from the counter. My father folded his paper. Neither of them spoke.
I set the phone down. Picked up my coffee. Took a sip.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the front door.
My father stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Two men stood on the porch. Big. Broad shoulders. Expensive suits. I didn't recognize them.
"Ella Parker?" one of them said.
My father didn't move. "Who's asking?"
"Mr. Grant sent us. We need to take her to the hospital."
"She's not going," my father said.
The man looked past him. At me. "Ma'am, if you don't come voluntarily, we have authorization to escort you."
I stood up. My mother reached for my arm. I pulled away.
"It's fine," I said.
It wasn't fine.
But I walked to the door anyway. The men stepped aside. Let me pass. One of them took my arm. Not rough. But firm.
My father stepped forward. "You're not taking her."
"Dad." I looked at him. "It's fine."
His jaw was tight. His hands were fists. But he stepped back.
They put me in a black car. Drove me to the hospital. Walked me through the side entrance. Up the elevator. Down a hall.
Into an examination room.
Dorian was waiting. His face was pale. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked at me like I was late for dinner.
"Thank God," he said. "They're prepping her now. The doctor said it has to be fast."
I looked at him. At the man I'd spent ten years with. The man who'd asked me to take off my wedding dress. The man who'd married someone else.
"Where's the consent form?" I said.
He blinked. "What?"
"The consent form. For the blood draw. Where is it?"
"Ella, there's no time—"
"Then there's no blood."
His face changed. Something hard moved behind his eyes.
"You're really going to do this?" he said. "You're going to let her die because you're jealous?"
I didn't answer.
He turned to the men behind me. Nodded.
They grabbed my arms.
I tried to pull away. Couldn't. They pushed me toward the examination table. Forced me down. One of them held my shoulders. The other held my legs.
A woman in scrubs walked in. Dr. Sarah Voss, according to her name tag. She looked at me. At the men holding me down. Her face didn't change.
"Left arm," she said.
She tied the tourniquet. Swabbed my skin. I felt the needle go in. Sharp. Cold.
I didn't fight. I just lay there and watched the ceiling tiles and counted them. One. Two. Three.
The blood bag filled. Dark red. My blood.
Dorian stood by the door. Watching. He didn't say anything.
When the bag was full, Dr. Voss pulled the needle out. Pressed gauze to my arm. Taped it down.
"You can let her go," she said.
The men released me. Stepped back.
I sat up. My arm throbbed. I looked at Dorian.
"We're done," I said.
He didn't answer. Just picked up the blood bag and walked out.
Dr. Voss followed him. The men followed her.
I sat alone in the examination room. The fluorescent lights hummed. My arm ached. I ran my thumb along the inside of my wrist. Once. Twice.
Then I stood. Walked out. Down the hall. Past the nurses' station. No one stopped me.
I took a cab home. My parents were waiting in the living room. My mother stood when I walked in. Looked at the bruise on my arm. The tape. The gauze.
She didn't say anything. Just pulled me into her arms.
I stood there. Let her hold me. I didn't cry.
I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom. Sat on the bed. Opened the small notebook I kept in my nightstand. The one where I wrote things down. Facts. Dates. Details.
I wrote:
*May 14. 3:47 PM. Mercy General Hospital. Examination Room 6. Dr. Sarah Voss. Blood draw. One liter. No consent. Two unidentified men. Dorian Grant present.*
I closed the notebook. Set it on the nightstand.
My hand didn't shake.
I was building something. I didn't know what yet. But I was building it.
One fact at a time.
