Chapter 4

The hospital became a stage for a grand, tragic play, and Donavan was the sole audience member to its dress rehearsal. He watched from a distance as Kortney was whisked away for compatibility testing. Danielle and Jinnie were led to a donation room, their sleeves rolled up, ready to give their blood for their fallen knight.

The results came back with startling speed. Kortney was a perfect match.

A nurse hurried out with a clipboard. "Ms. Mason, the compatibility is confirmed. We can proceed, but we need you to sign the consent forms. You understand the risks of major surgery?"

Kortney didn't even read the papers. She snatched the pen and signed her name with a flourish. "Just save him," she ordered, her voice trembling but firm.

She was prepped for surgery, her face a mask of determined sacrifice. As she was wheeled toward the operating theater, the surgeon stopped her.

"Ms. Mason, one more thing. The patient's blood pressure is unstable. We're running low on his blood type. Your friends' donations helped, but we may need more during the procedure."

Danielle and Jinnie, who had just finished their own donations and were looking pale, immediately stepped forward.

"Take more from us," Danielle said.

"We don't care," Jinnie added. "Just keep him alive."

A nurse looked at them with concern. "You've both already given the maximum recommended amount. Giving more could be dangerous for you."

"I said, take it," Danielle snapped, her voice leaving no room for argument.

They were led back into the donation room, their devotion a terrifying, beautiful, and utterly self-destructive thing.

Donavan stood in the shadows of an alcove down the hall, watching the entire spectacle unfold. He felt a profound, hollow numbness. He was witnessing the real-time replay of his first life. This was how they died for Jeb. Not with a bang, but with a series of deliberate, sacrificial choices, each one chipping away at their own lives until nothing was left.

He finally understood. He couldn't compete with Jeb, because Jeb wasn't a rival. He was a religion. And they were its most fervent, fanatical followers.

How could he fight a god?

He couldn't.

A wave of relief, cold and sharp, washed over him. He was lucky. In this life, he had chosen to walk away before the first sacrifice was even made. He was free.

Hours later, the light above the operating theater went off. The surgeon emerged, looking tired but triumphant.

"The surgery was a success," he announced to the anxious Danielle and Jinnie. "The transplant took. Mr. Clayton will make a full recovery." He then looked at the two women. "And you both are fine, though you'll need to rest and replenish your fluids. You were very brave."

They sagged with relief, their faces streaked with tears.

The surgeon then noticed Donavan, who had finally stepped out of the shadows. "And you must be Mr. Pittman. Your friends here... they are incredibly loyal."

Donavan gave a small, empty smile. "They are. But they are not my friends."

His words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of a final judgment. Danielle and Jinnie looked up, their relief turning to confusion.

"What do you mean?" Danielle asked.

"I mean, I have no relationship with any of you," Donavan said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "You should call your families. They will want to know about your... condition."

He turned to leave.

"Donny, wait!" Kortney's voice, weak and groggy, called from a recovery gurney being wheeled out. She had heard him.

He didn't stop. He didn't turn around.

As he walked toward the exit, he overheard two nurses whispering at their station.

"Can you believe that? Those three beautiful heiresses, willing to die for that guy. And her fiancé, Mr. Pittman, just stands there like a block of ice."

"I know, right? It's obvious who they really love. That poor fiancé. He doesn't stand a chance."

Donavan paused at the glass doors of the hospital entrance. He saw his reflection: pale, tired, but upright. He let out a short, bitter laugh.

Poor fiancé, he thought. They have no idea.

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool night air, leaving the drama, the sacrifice, and the whole damn toxic world behind him.

He drove home, the pain in his arm a dull throb that anchored him to the present. His parents were waiting up for him, their faces etched with worry.

"Donavan, your arm! What happened?" his mother cried, rushing to his side.

"A small accident," he said, gently pulling his arm away from her touch. "It's fine. The doctors took care of it." He wasn't going to tell them the truth. They wouldn't understand.

"We heard about the situation at the hospital," his father said, his expression grim. "The Masons called. Kortney underwent surgery."

"I know," Donavan said.

His parents exchanged a look. They were waiting for an explanation, for some sign of emotion. He gave them none.

"The Cains sent their family sigil," his mother said, changing the subject and handing him a heavy, platinum cufflink shaped like a stylized 'C'. It was cold and severe. "Their acceptance of the alliance is formal."

"Good," Donavan said, taking the cufflink.

"The Pierces and the Petersons have also been calling nonstop," his father added. "They want to know when you'll be making your decision public. They still expect you to choose one of them."

"I'll handle it," Donavan said, his voice flat. He looked at the platinum cufflink in his hand. It felt solid. Real. A promise of a future based on logic, not on the treacherous illusion of love.

The next day, he had his assistant pack three identical boxes. Inside each, he placed the family heirlooms the Masons, Petersons, and Pierces had sent as their marriage proposals. He attached a simple, typewritten card to each one: "Thank you for your consideration. The Pittman family has chosen another alliance."

He instructed the courier to deliver them in two days' time.

When he returned to the estate that evening, he found Kortney, Danielle, and Jinnie waiting for him in the drawing-room. They looked pale and exhausted, but they were dressed impeccably. They had brought gifts-expensive, thoughtful presents meant to soothe his ego.

"Donny," Kortney said, her voice soft and placating. "We wanted to apologize. We were... out of line at the hospital. We were so worried about Jeb, we weren't thinking straight."

They were trying to fix things. Not because they cared about him, but because their grand plan to protect Jeb depended on one of them becoming his wife. He could see the calculation in their eyes. The performance was starting all over again.

And Donavan was no longer interested in watching the show.