Chapter 4

I woke up to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the quiet beep of a machine. My head throbbed, but the ache in my abdomen was a hollow, gaping void.

A nurse with a kind, sad face told me what I already knew in my bones.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Elara," she said softly. "You've had a miscarriage."

The words didn't even make me cry. I was numb, a shell. I had lost the one thing I thought would save me. I had lost it because of his sister, and he had been worried about her hand.

I lay in that hospital bed for a day, a ghost in a white room. I didn't call anyone. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just stared at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness where my hope used to be.

The next afternoon, the door to my room burst open. It was Julian. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild with panic. He looked like he hadn't slept. For a foolish, fleeting second, I thought he had come for me. I thought he finally felt remorse.

He rushed to my bedside, but not to comfort me. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising.

"You have to come with me," he said, his voice ragged.

"What? Julian, I can't-"

"Claire was in an accident," he cut me off, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "A car crash. She's lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion, Elara. Her blood type is rare. The hospital just ran your records from when you were admitted. You're a match. You're the only match they can find this quickly."

He was pulling me, trying to drag me out of the bed. My body was weak, protesting with fresh waves of pain.

"Julian, stop," I pleaded. "I just lost the baby."

His face barely registered my words. His obsession was singular. "We don't have time! She's dying."

He half-dragged, half-carried me down the hallway toward a procedure room. A doctor and two nurses met us, their faces grim. They looked at me, then at Julian, a question in their eyes.

Julian pushed me toward them, his desperation raw and terrifying. He gripped the doctor's arm, his knuckles white.

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, you have to save my Elle."

The world stopped.

Everything froze. The hurried footsteps, the medical jargon, the frantic energy of the hallway-it all went silent.

My Elle.

The nickname he had used for his sister in the library. The name he had whispered with such adoration.

Elara. Elle.

It had never been about me. I wasn't just a placeholder. I was a substitute. A stand-in with a similar name. Every moment of affection, every whispered endearment, it had all been for her. I was just the vessel he used to practice on.

The pain of the miscarriage, the assault, the years of humiliation-it was nothing compared to this. This was the true death. The complete and utter annihilation of my soul.

I stopped fighting him. I went limp, my mind a blank, cold slate.

I let them take my blood to save the woman who had killed my child.