His Walking Blood Bank: The Unwanted Wife

Emilia Lancaster gently traced the rim of her wine glass. In the silent restaurant, the Wellington beef and the Romanée-Conti remained untouched.

This perfect dinner was staged solely for a perfect lie of a marriage.

She glanced at the Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet on her wrist-the only personal gift Delano had given her in their three years of marriage, offered with the coldness of a business transaction.

This marriage was nothing more than a deal she had struck to salvage her family's decline. For three years, she had played the flawless wife, yet had never managed to thaw his icy heart.

The antique clock on the wall chimed eight. He was an hour late.

Her phone buzzed on the silk tablecloth. "Delano."

A knot of anticipation tightened in her stomach. She answered, her voice betraying a hope she couldn't quite suppress.

"Are you on your way?"

"I have an emergency meeting at the office. I won't be back tonight." His voice was cold, distant. "You should get some sleep."

No explanation. No reference to the wedding anniversary.

Emilia's fingers whitened around her phone. She heard a faint cough from a woman in the background, which instantly shattered the last shred of hope she had clung to in her heart. She forced herself to ignore the suffocating doubt, yet could not stop the cold despair that surged up from deep within.

"Delano, today is our-"

"I know," he cut her off, his tone flat. "I had Arthur bring your gift to you."

The line went dead.

She stood frozen, the hope in her chest collapsing into a cold, empty cavern. Three years of trying, shattered in a single, careless sentence.

Her phone lit up again. A text from an unknown number.

She almost deleted it, assuming it was spam. But the preview text made her hand freeze.

"Mrs. Gates, want to know who your husband is really with tonight?"

Her thumb trembled as she opened the message. It contained a series of screenshots. A conversation between Fanny, Delano's ex‑girlfriend, and Delano.

The first image: "Fanny: Delano, thank you. The doctor said my levels are much more stable after this transfusion. Your 'mobile blood bank' is really effective."

The second: "Delano: As it should be. Take care of yourself. Emilia's Rh-null blood is stable. I'll ensure the supply."

The third: "Fanny: It's your third anniversary and you're with me. Won't Emilia be upset?"

"Delano: She doesn't have the right to be."

Emilia's vision blurred. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing softly on the Persian rug. Delano's words burned on the screen.

Her rare "golden blood." That was the true foundation of this marriage. She wasn't a wife. She was a walking, breathing blood bag.

A laugh escaped her lips, dry and brittle, growing louder until it filled the silent room with a sound of pure, desolate mockery.

Slowly, she bent down and picked up the phone. The tears she expected never came. There was only a chilling, absolute clarity.

She walked upstairs to the study, her steps steady.

She opened her laptop and, without a moment's hesitation, composed an email to her personal lawyer.

The subject line was simple: "Divorce."

The body of the email was even simpler: "David, please draft the divorce papers immediately. As soon as possible."

After hitting send, she opened an encrypted folder. Inside were three years of carefully, quietly collected records of Gates Corporation's more questionable dealings.

She returned to the dining room. She looked at the perfect, untouched meal. She picked up the bottle of Romanée-Conti.

She walked to the kitchen sink, twisted the cork, and poured the entire bottle of deep red liquid down the drain.

When the bottle was empty, she felt a profound, unnerving sense of peace.

She turned and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Arthur Reynolds, the head butler, entered moments later, holding a velvet jewelry box. He stopped, staring at the empty dining room and the crimson stains in the pristine white sink.

Emilia went to her bedroom and locked the door. She sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, waiting for the dawn.

The sound of a car engine on the gravel driveway startled Emilia awake from her semi-slumber. Dawn had broken, and Delano was back.

She rose from her bed and walked into the enormous walk-in closet. She brushed past her usual pastel-colored dresses and chose a black silk suit. She applied her makeup steadily, a mask of indifference on her face.

Delano walked into the master bedroom, shedding his jacket. He stopped when he saw her, frowning, and loosened his tie. "Arthur said you didn't accept your gift last night." His voice held a familiar edge of impatience, as if her feelings were an inconvenience. Emilia didn't answer. She walked to the coffee table and placed a document on its glass surface. The title was in bold, black letters: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Delano's hands stilled on his tie. His gaze lifted from the paper to her face, his ice-blue eyes filled with a flicker of disbelief. "What is this?" His voice was low, a dangerous rumble.

"Exactly what it looks like," Emilia said, her own voice unnervingly calm. "Delano, we're getting a divorce."

A short, humorless laugh escaped him. "A divorce? Emilia, have you forgotten that your Lancaster family still needs me?" He crossed the room in three long strides, his large frame eclipsing her. He gripped her chin, forcing her to look up. The pressure of his fingers was a painful warning. "Who gave you this courage?"

"You did. You and Fanny Solomon."

At the mention of Fanny's name, his eyes turned glacial. He released her, stepping back as if she were contaminated. "So you know," he said, not bothering to deny it. "That doesn't change anything. Fanny needs treatment, and you need to play your part."

"My part?" she asked, a bitter smile touching her lips. "Your mobile blood bag?"

"If that's how you choose to define it." He picked up the divorce agreement. Slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half, then in quarters, letting the pieces flutter into the wastebasket. "I will not agree to a divorce," he declared. "Not until Fanny's condition is completely stable. You're not going anywhere."

Emilia watched the torn paper settle. Her heart felt like it was being shredded along with it, but her expression remained placid. "You will." She took a deep breath. "If you don't, I won't hesitate to tell The New York Times the real story of our marriage. About how the great Delano Gates uses his wife's blood to keep his mistress alive."

His face changed. The cool indifference was gone, replaced by a flash of raw fury. "Are you threatening me?" He stalked toward her, the air crackling. Her palms were slick with sweat, but she held her ground. "I'm stating a fact."

He stared at her for a long, suffocating moment. Then, a slow, cold smile spread across his face. "Very good, Emilia. You have more fight in you than I thought." He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "It's me. Suspend all credit lines to the Lancaster Group. And begin the process for a hostile takeover. Effective immediately."

Emilia's blood ran cold. This was the brutality she had anticipated. He ended the call, his gaze fixed on her, searching for a flicker of regret. "Now," he said softly, cruelly. "What leverage do you have left? Go ahead, tell the media. I don't care. But before the story even runs, your family will be bankrupt. Your father will be ruined. The choice is yours."

Emilia did not back down. On the contrary, she brought out a file. A slender, icy smile appeared on her lips, reflecting his own ruthlessness. "You're right, Delano. A scandal might not sink you. But what about the encrypted records of the South-East project? Or the 'questionable' offshore accounts I've been tracking? And what do you think happens when the internal trading records for the Gates Group's largest overseas energy acquisition get leaked to the SEC?"

The grip on her chin tightened, then froze. For the first time, the confidence in Delano's eyes wavered. His pupils contracted. He recognized the files. They detailed deals he thought were flawless, untraceable. He looked at her-really looked at her-not as a possession, but as an opponent. The power in the room shifted.

"I told you," Emilia whispered, her voice as sharp as a blade. "I want a divorce. If the Lancaster Group goes down, I'm taking the Gates Corporation's entire board of directors to prison with me. Now, do you still want to talk about leverage?"

He stared at her, his jaw tight, looking like a predator challenged for its kill.

After a long, tense moment, he took out his phone again. "The takeover is on hold," he barked into the receiver. "Restore the credit lines to the Lancaster Group. Immediately." He ended the call, his gaze burning into Emilia.

He had conceded, but the defeat was a bitter pill. "Your family is safe," he said, his voice dangerously smooth, a promise of future retribution. "But the divorce is not happening. Not yet."

He strode to the door and said to the guard standing outside, Hank Kowalski, "From now on, Mrs. Gates is not to leave this estate. Not one step."

Emilia lunged forward, adrenaline flooding her veins, a furious protest exploding from her lips. "Delano! This is false imprisonment!" But two towering bodyguards, seemingly materializing from the shadows, blocked her path with silent, resolute efficiency. Their massive frames and impassive faces made her physical predicament abundantly clear, yet Emilia's gaze only grew colder and more determined.

He turned around, a smug smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes swept over her, icy and possessive. "To ensure the 'bloodline' remains healthy and stable, from now on, your diet, your sleep-everything will be 'managed' by professionals." His gaze dropped to her hand, where her phone was still clutched tight-the last remaining thread of her connection to the outside world. "Your phone, your laptop-anything that allows you to contact the outside-I'll take care of it."

A guard stepped forward, polite yet firm, and gently disarmed her. Emilia watched with cold eyes as her only "weapon," her link to the world, was taken away. The chilling, brutal reality of her situation descended upon her like a sharp blade-yet it only stoked her vigilance and defiance all the more.

Delano leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper in her ear, devoid of any warmth or humanity. "Emilia, I gave you a choice. Now, welcome to your new cage." He straightened up, cast one last look at her as if she were a precious but unruly animal, and turned to leave. The heavy door clicked shut behind him with a reverberating finality-like an ultimate, condemning verdict sealing her fate.

Emilia threw herself at the door, shaking the handle in futile fury, but it was locked from the outside. She did not slump to the floor. Instead, she pressed her back against the cold, unyielding wood, her chest heaving. This lavish bedroom, once a symbol of her privileged life, now stood as a gilded prison. Silk sheets, antique furniture, priceless art-all were merely exquisite bars on her cage, and in that moment, they became the very restraints she had to shatter.

She did not cry. Tears were useless-a luxury she could not afford, a weakness she refused to show. Instead, a fire kindled in her eyes, fiercer and more unyielding than ever. Delano had underestimated her. He thought he had trapped her, broken her will-but he had only stoked her resolve. He had revealed his true face, and in doing so, freed her from any lingering illusions. She had to get out.

She had to break free.

No matter the cost.