Chapter 4

The operating room was cold and smelled of antiseptic. The bright, white lights overhead were blinding. Elizebeth lay on the table, feeling incredibly weak. A nurse strapped her arm down, the leather cuff tight against her skin.

The hum of medical equipment filled the silence. A doctor in a green mask approached her, holding a large needle.

"This will be a direct transfusion," the doctor said, his voice muffled by the mask. "It might be a little uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable. The word was a cruel understatement.

Fear, cold and sharp, seized her. "Can't you... can't you just draw the blood normally? Is there no anesthetic?"

The doctor looked at the nurse, who shook her head slightly. "Mr. Meyers was very specific," the nurse said, avoiding Elizebeth' s eyes. "He said there wasn't time for standard procedures. He wants it done now, and he doesn't want anything to 'contaminate' the donation."

No anesthetic. He wanted her to feel it. All of it. He was punishing her.

The last of her strength left her. She was a lamb on an altar, and the man she loved was holding the sacrificial knife.

The needle went in. It was a thick, brutal intrusion. A searing pain shot up her arm, so intense it made her gasp. A scream built in her throat, but she bit her lip, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.

Blood, her blood, flowed through a clear tube. She watched it, a river of life leaving her body. She could feel herself growing colder, weaker. The room began to spin.

"It's almost over," the doctor said, his voice distant. "You're doing great."

When it was finally done, they bandaged her arm and left her alone in the cold, white room. She lay there, crying silently, not from the physical pain, but from the utter desolation in her soul. He had taken everything from her-her love, her dignity, and now, her blood. The wound in her arm would heal, but the wound in her heart was fatal.

She struggled to sit up, her body trembling. She had to get out. She had to leave this place. She staggered to her feet and made her way out of the room.

She saw him down the hall. Floyd was standing with Jaylah and her mother, who was now sitting up in bed, looking perfectly healthy.

"Thank you, Floyd," Jaylah's mother was saying. "You saved me."

Floyd smiled, a warm, genuine smile that Elizebeth hadn't seen in months. "It was nothing. I'm just glad you're okay."

He hadn't even checked on her. He didn't care if she lived or died.

She felt her legs grow weak. She leaned against the wall for support, her vision blurring.

She remembered when he was in the hospital after his accident. He had been so fragile. She had sat by his bed for months, holding his hand, talking to him, playing his favorite music. She had bathed him, fed him through a tube, and prayed every single day for him to wake up.

He had promised her then, his voice weak but full of emotion after he finally woke, "I will never let you suffer. I will spend my life making you happy."

What a bitter joke that was now.

Her body finally gave up. She slid down the wall, her consciousness fading. The last thing she saw was Floyd glancing in her direction, his face a mask of annoyance, before turning back to Jaylah.

He gestured to a nurse. "She's fainted. Put her in a room. I'll deal with her later."

She was put in a private room, luxurious and quiet. It was a stark contrast to the cold courtyard and the sterile operating room. But the comfort was a mockery. She was a prisoner in a gilded cage.

She didn't want to live anymore. What was there to live for? The man she loved had become her tormentor. The life she had dreamed of was a nightmare.

She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.