I didn't know how long I had been unconscious when the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant slowly pulled me back to reality.
The moment I tried to move, a stabbing pain tore through my abdomen, instantly reminding me of everything that had happened.
The doctor, noticing I was awake, hesitated before stepping closer. His eyes held a pity that chilled me to the bone.
"Mrs. Holmes, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Because of your previous miscarriage and the gunshot injury to your uterus—combined with the severe bleeding this time—the situation was critical. To... to save your life..."
He hesitated, lowering his gaze.
"We had no choice but to remove your uterus."
His words hit me like a bolt of lightning. My mind went blank.
"What... what did you just say?"
My pupils dilated as I stared at his moving lips, unable to register the sound.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes. If you had been brought in sooner, perhaps we could have saved it, but..."
His voice faded into a blur.
Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision.
My heart, which had already gone numb, clenched painfully again.
How could this be happening?
Was this God's punishment for loving the wrong man?
I shook my head violently, tears spilling down my cheeks, refusing to accept the truth.
Just then, the ward door burst open with a deafening crash.
Weston stormed in, his face dark with rage. "Patricia is having massive bleeding because of you. Your blood types match—I need you to give her a transfusion. Now!"
The doctor hesitated, glancing between us. "Mr. Holmes, your wife just had a hysterectomy. She's extremely weak. It's not safe for her to donate blood now."
Only then did Weston seem to notice my pallor, the sweat on my brow, the tears at the corners of my eyes.
For a brief second, he froze—then his gaze hardened with disgust.
"Denise, it's just a bit of blood. You really bribed the doctor to act for you?"
A bitter laugh rose in my throat. The one acting all this time wasn't me—it was him.
The man who had lied, deceived, and destroyed everything I loved.
I wanted to tear off his mask, to scream until the truth echoed in his ears.
But all I managed was a cold, trembling whisper. "I didn't push her. And I won't give her my blood."
His patience finally snapped.
At his signal, one of the bodyguards stepped forward, holding a porcelain urn.
"Denise," Weston said coldly, "did you know? The child you lost—it was a boy."
My heart stopped. I turned sharply, eyes locking on the urn in his hands.
"You wouldn't want your son to have no peace even in death, would you?" His tone was chillingly calm as he slowly raised the urn higher.
My pupils constricted. Panic flooded my body.
"Don't! Don't touch him! I'll do it—I'll give her the blood!"
The moment I said it, a needle pierced my arm.
Cold metal against warm skin, and soon, crimson blood began to flow from my body.
I was already weak from blood loss; dizziness clouded my vision as the room tilted.
After one full bag, my face had turned ghostly pale.
The nurse reached to remove the needle, but Weston stopped her. "Draw two more bags. Keep them ready for Patricia."
"Mr. Holmes," the nurse protested softly, "Mrs. Holmes has already lost too much blood—if we continue—"
"She won't die," he said flatly.
Three light words, each sharper than a blade, slicing into my heart until it bled anew.
The nurse hesitated, then reluctantly continued. Only after three full bags did he finally stop, taking the still-warm blood himself and leaving without another glance.
By the time it was over, my lips were colorless, and the world was spinning.
I could barely breathe.
Yet despite the weakness that crushed me, one thought burned in my chest—I had to leave this place.
I staggered out of the bed, and dragged myself toward the door.
