That finally made him stop.
He turned slowly, disbelief written all over his face as he stared at me. “What did you just say?”
“I’m pregnant,” I said again, my voice trembling but steady enough to carry. “The doctor told me it’s practically a miracle I conceived at all. It’s a high‑risk pregnancy… and it’s twins, Vincent. If you take my blood, you could kill them. Our children.”
For a brief second, everything went quiet.
Then he laughed.
It was a harsh, ugly sound that cut straight through me. “You really expect me to buy that?” His lips curled in contempt. “You’re disgusting enough to fake a pregnancy just to avoid helping your own sister?”
“I’m telling the truth,” I whispered.
“No, you’re not,” he snapped. “You’ve always been a liar, Althea. You’ll give the blood. End of story.”
Something inside me finally shattered. “I’m not killing my babies for her!”
His face darkened, fury rolling off him like a storm. “Then I’ll burn that vineyard your parents spent their lives building. Row by row. I’ll make you stand there and watch while I rip out every vine, crush the soil until nothing ever grows again. No wine. No barrels. No trace that they ever existed.”
My blood went cold.
That vineyard wasn’t just land—it was my parents’ legacy. Decades of work since the eighties, every vine planted by their hands. I grew up running between those rows, breathing in the sweetness of harvest season. It was our family’s heart, and he knew exactly how to use it against me.
“Y-you wouldn’t,” I stammered.
Vincent stepped closer, invading my space until I could feel his breath against my skin. His eyes were sharp, merciless. “Test me.”
I stared at him, my chest heaving. This was the man I once loved. The man who once swore he’d protect me. Now he was the one I needed protection from.
My hand drifted to my stomach without thinking. The twins. My babies. Tears slid down my face, silent and helpless.
When he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, I didn’t resist. Fighting him had never ended well. I followed quietly, swallowing the sobs clawing at my throat.
He took me straight into the VIP hospital room he’d arranged for Natalia. She lay in the bed, pale and frail, IV lines running into her arm, eyes rimmed red. She let out weak little whimpers, like she was barely holding on.
Vincent rushed to her side. “I’m here, Daph,” he murmured, brushing her hair back gently—so tender, so different from how he treated me. “You’re going to be okay. I brought her.”
Her lips quivered. “Everything hurts, Vincent… I feel so bad.”
I stood frozen, watching my husband cradle my sister like she was made of glass. Then Natalia cracked one eye open and looked at me.
She smiled.
No—she smirked. Just for a split second before closing her eyes again.
Bitch.
Anger churned violently in my gut.
I stepped forward to speak, but Vincent turned so fast I barely had time to react. His hand clamped around my wrist, grip iron‑hard. One look from him told me exactly what would happen if I opened my mouth.
The door swung open, and a doctor entered, eyes flicking between us.
“She’s deteriorating,” Vincent said flatly, not even glancing at me. “Start the transfusion immediately.”
“She’s stable enough to—” the doctor began, but Natalia whimpered again.
“We’re not waiting,” Vincent cut in. “The donor’s right here.”
The doctor’s gaze settled on me. He nodded once and instructed the nurses to prepare.
My body went rigid when I saw the needle. Cold sweat broke across my skin. I’d always been terrified of needles, and Vincent knew it. Years ago, he used to hold my hand, murmur reassurances, distract me until it was over.
Now, he didn’t even look at me.
At Natalia’s next whimper, he abandoned me entirely and rushed back to her side.
I turned my head away as the doctor approached. In my mind, I begged anyone—God, fate, even the devil—to make this stop.
The needle hovered inches from my arm when the door slammed open.
“Stop!”
Another doctor rushed in, clutching a folder, breathless. “You can’t proceed.”
The room fell silent.
“Mrs. Ramirez is pregnant!” he announced loudly.
The needle was lowered at once.
Vincent blinked, his face twitching. “That’s impossible. She can’t—”
The doctor stepped forward and shoved the file into his hands. “She was here this morning for an abortion consult and cancelled it. She’s carrying twins. High‑risk.”
Relief crashed over me so hard my knees nearly buckled. Finally. Proof. Someone believed me.
But before I could fully breathe, Vincent lifted his head.
His voice was cold as ice. “I don’t give a fuck. Take her blood.”
I stared at him, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, jaw tight.
The room went dead quiet except for the steady beeping of machines.
One of the nurses hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Mr. Ramirez, your wife cannot donate blood. She’s pregnant—with twins—and it’s a high‑risk pregnancy. Proceeding could cost both babies.”
Vincent didn’t even blink. He stepped forward, voice sharp and commanding. “I heard you. Do it anyway.”
The doctor looked between us, shaken. “Sir, this could endanger her life as well. We can’t—”
“You can,” Vincent snapped. “I’m paying you enough to do exactly what I say.”
My chest tightened painfully. This was my husband. The man I once trusted with my life.
Vincent’s gaze swept the room. “I am Vincent Ramirez. Every one of you works here because I allow it. Defy me—and you’ll regret it.”
