My Groom Took My Mother’s Blood for His Mistress

The crystal chandeliers of the Pierre Hotel didn’t sparkle; they glared. Under their harsh interrogation, I adjusted the strap of my gown, feeling the silk cling to the cold sweat on my back. This was supposed to be the night Asher and I announced our wedding date. Instead, the air in the ballroom felt thin, insufficient to fill my lungs.

I scanned the room for my parents. They weren't at the head table where the place cards read *Family of the Bride*. I found them tucked into a dark corner near the swinging kitchen doors, the draft from the service entrance fluttering the hem of my mother’s modest dress. Dad was staring at his hands, knuckles white as he gripped the tablecloth. Mom looked smaller than I remembered, her skin possessing the translucent, papery quality of dried leaves.

A waiter dropped a tray onto their table with a clatter that cut through the string quartet’s melody. No crystal flutes. No porcelain. Just paper plates loaded with cold, curling ham sandwiches and Styrofoam containers that smelled of day-old grease.

"What is this?" The words scraped my throat. I marched over, my heels sinking into the plush carpet.

"It's fine, Blaire," Mom whispered, her voice a fragile reed. She tried to smile, but the effort only highlighted the dark hollows under her eyes. "We don't want to make a fuss."

"I ordered the sea bass for you. The chef prepared a special menu for your dietary needs."

Before I could signal a captain, the double doors swung open. The room went silent, the kind of silence that precedes a car crash.

Asher walked in. He wasn't looking for me. His arm was looped tightly through Annalise Vargas’s. She wore a dress that looked like it had been poured onto her body, a shimmering crimson that made my ivory gown look like a shroud. Asher looked every inch the tech mogul—tailored navy suit, jaw set with arrogant confidence, eyes sweeping the room like a king surveying peasants.

They didn't stop at the entrance. They walked straight to us.

"Asher?" I stepped forward, blocking his path to my parents. "What is going on? Why is Annalise here?"

He looked through me, his gaze landing on the waiter hovering nearby. "Change of plans," Asher announced, his voice carrying easily to the silent onlookers. "Bring the lobster thermidor and the '96 Dom Pérignon to Ms. Vargas. She’s the only one here with the palate to appreciate it."

A ripple of whispers tore through the crowd. Annalise giggled, a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, Asher, you shouldn't have. But I suppose *some* people are used to deli meat."

My father stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. " Gordon, you son of a—"

"Sit down, Frank," Asher snapped, not even flinching. "Unless you want the security team to escort you out before dessert."

Beside me, a soft gasp turned into a rattle. Mom’s hand flew to her chest. She was shaking, a violent tremor that started in her hands and seized her entire frame. The stress. It was too much.

"Her meds," Dad choked out, fumbling with her purse. "Blaire, the time."

I snatched the bag, my fingers numb. *8:00 PM. The experimental inhibitor.* If she missed the window, the toxicity levels in her blood would spike. I ripped the zipper open, locating the orange bottle. My hands shook so hard the pills rattled like maracas.

"Look at them," Annalise drawled, leaning into Asher. "So dramatic."

I uncapped the bottle, desperate to get a pill into Mom’s trembling hand. I reached for the pitcher of water on the table.

Asher moved. It was subtle—a shift of his shoulder, a calculated step—but his elbow connected hard with my forearm.

The bottle flew.

Time seemed to warp, stretching the moment into an eternity. I watched the orange cylinder hit the parquet floor. The cap popped off. The pills—tiny, white lifelines that cost more than this entire party—scattered across the dirty floorboards.

"No!" The scream tore from my chest. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the gasps of the socialites around us. I scrambled on the floor, gathering the pills, blowing off dust, my vision blurring with hot, stinging tears.

*Crunch.*

The sound was sickeningly loud. I looked up. Annalise’s red stiletto was planted firmly on three of the pills, crushing them into powder.

"Oops," she said, her lips curving into a smirk that didn't reach her cold, dead eyes. "Clumsy me."

"You monster," I hissed, grabbing what was left.

Behind me, Mom collapsed. She didn't slump; she fell like a cut string, hitting the floor with a terrifying thud.

***

The emergency room at Lenox Hill was chaos, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the limousine ride over. Asher had come, only because his publicist probably texted him that leaving his fiancée’s dying mother would look bad. Annalise tagged along, complaining about the hospital smell.

"BP is plummeting!" a nurse shouted. "She's in hypovolemic shock."

Dr. Evans, the attending, burst through the curtain. "We need plasma. Type AB negative. Now!"

"We have one unit left in the bank," a resident replied, already running toward the cooler.

I held Mom’s cold hand, watching the monitor’s erratic line. "Hang on, Mom. Please, just hang on."

Suddenly, a thud behind me. Annalise slumped against the wall, hand to her forehead. "Asher... I feel so faint. My blood sugar... I think I'm going into shock."

It was a performance. I saw her check her reflection in the glass cabinet a second before she 'fainted.'

Asher caught her, his face twisting into a mask of concern he never showed me. He turned to the doctor. "Give the plasma to Annalise."

The room froze. The resident holding the blood bag looked between the dying woman on the gurney and the woman batting her eyelashes in Asher’s arms.

"Sir," Dr. Evans said, his voice hard. "This patient is critical. Miss Vargas appears stable—"

"I said give it to her!" Asher roared, stepping forward, using his height to intimidate the staff. "I just donated two million dollars to this wing. Do you want that funding pulled? Annalise has a delicate constitution. If she faints, she could hit her head. She needs the boost. Now."

"Are you insane?" I screamed, lunging at him, but a security guard held me back. "My mother is dying! Annalise is faking it! Look at her!"

"Priorities, Blaire," Asher sneered, shielding Annalise as if she were the victim. "Some people are just more valuable than others. Give Annalise the blood. That's an order."

The resident looked at the attending. The attending looked at the monitor where my mother’s heart rate was dropping into the red.

And Asher just smiled.