Part 4

Three days later, Elara could barely lift her head from the pillow.

Her skin had turned the color of faded parchment, translucent enough that the blue veins snaking across her wrists stood out like dark cracks in porcelain. Every breath came in shallow, ragged pulls; sitting upright for more than a minute sent black spots dancing across her vision, and her limbs felt as though they were filled with lead. Leo had come by the night before, his face tight with suppressed fury and grief, and whispered again that one more donation would quite literally be pushing her over the edge—that her bone marrow was already exhausted, her heart struggling just to keep a steady rhythm, that her body had nothing left to give. She had only smiled that same fragile, heartbreaking smile and squeezed his hand, already knowing it would not matter. Vincent would take what he wanted. He always did.

She heard his footsteps long before he reached the bedroom—long, sharp, unhurried strides on the marble floor, the sound that had once made her heart race with longing and now made it ache so badly she had to press a palm to her chest just to breathe. The door flew open without a knock. Vincent stood in the frame, tailored suit immaculate, face carved from ice, dark eyes sweeping over her huddled form in the big bed. There was no concern in them. No softening. Nothing but cold, unmasked impatience and disdain.

“Get up,” he said, his voice flat and sharp as a blade. “The car is waiting. Clara’s levels dropped again overnight. She’s fading in and out. She needs you.”

Elara tried to push herself up, her arms shaking so violently they gave out almost at once, and she fell back against the pillows with a soft, pained gasp. “Vincent… I can’t… I’m so weak… please, just a few more days to rest—”

He was across the room in three long steps, and before she could flinch away he had fisted his hand in the front of her nightgown and hauled her upright until her face was level with his. The movement made the room spin violently; bile rose hot in her throat, and her vision grayed out at the edges for several terrifying seconds. His grip was bruising, his eyes burning into hers with a loathing that stole what little breath she had left.

“Cut the act, Elara,” he sneered, shaking her hard enough that her teeth rattled. “I know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve always been a jealous, manipulative little thing. You see how much I care about Clara, and suddenly you’re too frail to move, too sick to stand? You think playing the dying victim will make me look at you? Make me feel something for you?” He laughed, a short, ugly sound devoid of any humor. “It won’t. All it does is make you look pathetic. You are my wife in name only—your only real use to anyone in this house is that your blood happens to match hers. Now you will get out of this bed, you will get into that car, and you will give her exactly what she needs. Or do I have to drag you there myself?”

Tears spilled over before she could stop them, hot and useless, tracing paths down her gaunt cheeks. She looked into the face of the man she had loved for more than half her life—the face that visited every one of her dreams and every one of her nightmares—and for the first time, the tiny, fragile flame of hope she had guarded in her chest for three long years flickered, wavered, and went completely out.

He never loved me, her mind whispered, broken and quiet and final, as he all but dragged her out of the bedroom and down the stairs, her bare feet dragging uselessly against the floor, her body swaying like a reed in a storm. He cares so much about Clara… this is it. He never cared about me. Not even a little. There was never anything to hope for, nothing to wait for. It was all just… nothing. All this time, it was nothing.

And yet—oh, God, and yet—as he manhandled her into the back of the limousine and barked at the driver to hurry, as his arm remained rigid and unyielding where it held her upright only so she would not faint before they reached the hospital, her heart still ached for him. It still beat only for him. She could curse him, condemn him, break into a thousand pieces because of him—but she could not, for even one single second, stop loving him. It was no longer a choice. It was simply what her heart was made to do.

At the hospital, the needle slid into her vein for what felt like the thousandth time. Elara lay back against the leather recliner, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath her skin. She watched the dark, thick blood flow slowly from her arm into the collection bag—watched the very life draining out of her, drop by drop, to feed the lie of the woman who wanted everything she had. She felt colder by the minute, numbness creeping up from her toes to her chest, a distant ringing starting in her ears. Vincent stood by the wall the entire time, arms crossed, his gaze never once landing on her. It was fixed only on the bag, counting every ounce taken, his expression softening only when the nurse told him it was enough and carried it straight through to Clara’s room. He followed immediately. He did not look back. He did not ask if she was alive.

Elara was left alone in the empty room, shivering violently under two thin blankets, too weak even to press the call button for water.

Two doors down, Clara sat up perfectly straight in her hospital bed, pink‑cheeked and bright‑eyed, not a trace of illness left in her as the fresh blood finished running into her system. The moment Vincent walked in, she turned to him with a soft, radiant smile, and when he came close to check on her she reached out, her fingers sliding boldly up the lapel of his jacket, curling around the back of his neck to pull him nearer. Her body leaned fully into his, her breasts pressing against his chest, her eyes heavy and lidded as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“Vincent…” she murmured, her voice low and honey‑sweet, deliberately seductive. “You’ve been so good to me. So wonderful. You’ve done everything for me… more than any man has ever done. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” She tilted her face upward, her lips only inches from his. “Elara is so lucky to be your wife… but I know she doesn’t appreciate you. Not like I do. Not the way you deserve. If I were the one married to you… I’d make sure you never felt cold. Never felt alone. I’d give you everything.”

She pressed closer still, one hand drifting boldly down his chest, and for a moment she thought she had won—thought that all this time playing sick had finally broken the wall between them. But Vincent simply stepped back. Not roughly, not with the cold violence he reserved only for Elara; he pulled away gently, almost politely, his expression calm and unreadable, and straightened his jacket where she had touched it. He did not look disgusted. He did not snap or insult her. He was simply… unreachable.

“Clara,” he said quietly, “I am a married man. Bound by contract, bound by name. Whatever you think you feel… whatever you think we could be… it cannot happen. I have a wife. I have responsibilities. This is as far as it goes.”

It was not a rejection that stung her pride to the bone—but it was a rejection all the same, and Clara’s nails bit silently into her palms beneath the sheets as she pasted her sweetest, most angelic expression back onto her face. If she could not have him by seduction, she would have him by destroying Elara completely. She lowered her lashes, looking suddenly fragile and concerned, and reached for his hand with both of hers.

“You’re right… of course you are. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m just… so emotional, and so grateful.” She paused, biting her lip softly. “Vincent… how is Elara? She gave so much again today. I feel terrible taking so much from her. I want to see her. Please… will you let me go to her room? I want to sit with her. To tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me. She’s my sister, after all.”

Vincent’s face actually softened. He squeezed her hands gently, looking at her with genuine warmth and regard—the kind of warmth Elara had begged for in silence for a thousand nights and never once received. “You really are too good for this world, Clara. Of course you can go. I’ll walk you there.”

They wheeled Clara down the corridor in a chair, her head tilted weakly against the headrest, looking every bit the fragile, recovering patient. When they reached Elara’s room, Vincent paused at the door. “I’ll wait right outside. Call if you need anything at all.”

The door clicked shut.....

Continuing...

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