The brilliant smile on Camila's face froze, cracking like thin ice.
"Mason?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion. "Where's Carlisle? The nurse said he was on his way."
Mason stepped into the room, his polished Italian shoes making no sound on the plush carpet. He walked to the bedside table and placed the blue folder down. The soft thud of plastic on wood echoed in the suddenly silent room, making Camila's heart jump.
"Mr. Reyes was detained by an urgent matter," he said, his voice as sterile as the clinic's antiseptic air. "He asked me to deliver this to you first."
A sliver of disappointment, sharp and cold, pierced through Camila's happiness. It was quickly followed by a prickle of unease. Carlisle had never, not once, let anything be more urgent than her. Especially not now.
A flicker of memory—Claire's trembling fingers, her eyes darting to the door—passed through her mind, but she pushed it away.
She looked at the folder. "What is it?"
Mason didn't answer directly. He opened the folder with precise, mechanical movements, extracted a single document, and laid it on top. He then produced a pen, placing it neatly beside the paper, pointing toward her.
His efficiency was chilling. He wasn't a person; he was a function.
Camila's eyes dropped to the top of the page. The words were printed in a stark, black font.
Bone Marrow Donation Informed Consent Form.
Her brain stalled. The words floated in front of her, refusing to connect into a coherent thought. Bone marrow? Donation? It made no sense.
She looked up at Mason, her voice a trembling whisper. "Bone marrow donation? For who? What does this mean?"
Mason adjusted his glasses, a gesture that managed to be both subtle and dismissive. His expression remained unnervingly blank. "For Miss Seraphina Vance. Her condition has worsened. She requires an immediate transplant."
"Seraphina Vance?" Camila repeated the name. She knew who Seraphina was, of course. Carlisle's childhood friend, a beautiful, fragile socialite who had been battling a rare blood disorder for years. Carlisle spoke of her with a kind of sad, brotherly affection.
But that didn't explain this. "But... why me?"
For the first time, a flicker of something that might have been an emotion crossed Mason's face. It was a faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip that looked like pity, or perhaps contempt.
"Because your bone marrow is a perfect match for Miss Vance," he said, his tone flat. "A fact Mr. Reyes has been aware of for the last three years."
Three years.
The words slammed into her like a physical blow. A roaring sound filled her ears, drowning out the gentle beeping of the monitors. Three years. That was when she and Carlisle had met. The day she'd spilled coffee on his suit.
She remembered his first date—how he'd known every food she disliked after a single conversation. She'd thought it was attentiveness. Now she understood: it was dietary management.
She remembered how he called three times a day to ask about her blood pressure and the babies' heart rates. She'd thought he was being a devoted father-to-be. Now she knew: he was monitoring the health of his investment.
A monstrous, unthinkable idea began to form in the depths of her mind, so hideous she tried to shove it away.
"No," she shook her head, a frantic, jerky motion. "No, this is a mistake. It has to be."
She tried to sit up, a surge of adrenaline fighting against the heavy, cumbersome weight of her own body. The babies shifted, a painful, grinding pressure against her ribs. "I need to see Carlisle. I need him to tell me himself."
Mason's hand rested on the document, a quiet gesture of finality. "Mr. Reyes's instructions were for you to sign this before the delivery. To save time."
Just then, his phone buzzed on his belt clip. He glanced at the caller ID before answering and pressing the speakerphone button.
A voice filled the room. Carlisle's voice. But it was a version she had never heard before, stripped of all warmth, all affection. It was the voice he used on conference calls, sharp and cold as forged steel.
"Has she signed it?"
Camila's body went rigid. Every muscle, every nerve, seized. The air in her lungs turned to ice. She couldn't breathe.
Mason glanced at her, his eyes cold and clinical, assessing her reaction. "She has some questions, sir."
A sigh of impatience crackled through the speaker. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated annoyance. And then came the words. The words that took her perfect, beautiful world and set it on fire.
"Tell her not to waste time. Tell her to do what a good backup marrow bank is supposed to do."
Backup... marrow bank?
The phrase didn't just pierce her heart; it detonated inside it. She wasn't a person to him. She was a specimen, a vessel, a walking, breathing insurance policy.
Nausea rose in her throat. Her hands flew to her belly, clutching it protectively, as if to shield her children from the poison of his words.
Her eyes, wide with horror, were fixed on the phone in Mason's hand, as if it were a venomous snake.
Then, Carlisle's voice came again, but this time it was different. The coldness was gone, replaced by a tone of such aching tenderness and concern it made her stomach clench. But it wasn't for her.
"Seraphina, don't worry," he was saying, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "The marrow is secured. You're going to be fine. I promise."
She had never heard him speak to her like that. Not once. The realization landed like a second, deadlier blow.
The whiplash was staggering. The brutal contrast between the two tones—one for the tool, one for the treasure—was the final, killing blow.
A tidal wave of understanding crashed over her, pulling her under. It was all a lie. The chance meeting. The whirlwind romance. The perfect proposal. All of it. A meticulously crafted, three-year-long lie.
She wasn't his love. She wasn't his fiancée. She and the four precious lives inside her were nothing more than a crop, cultivated and grown for the harvest. They were just a means to an end, a collection of biological material to save someone else.
Outside, the rain began to fall again, drumming against the window like a death knell.
The room began to spin. Black spots danced in her vision. The overwhelming weight of the betrayal was a physical force, pressing down on her, crushing the air from her lungs. Dark, icy water seemed to fill her mouth and nose, drowning out sound, drowning out thought. Only the desperate flutter of her babies' kicks still anchored her to reality.
She was drowning.
