From Wife to Blood Bag

On our ninth wedding anniversary, Xavier Thorpe walked Natalie Reynolds through the front door.

He casually adjusted his cufflinks, barely sparing a glance at the candlelit dinner I had painstakingly prepared.

"From now on, Natalie will take the master bedroom. She's pregnant and needs special care," he said, his voice cold and detached.

I placed my napkin down, my gaze fixed on the floor-to-ceiling windows. The setting sun painted the garden a deep red—almost like the color of my shattered heart.

"Oh, and," he added dismissively, "she's picky about food. You'll prepare three different meals for her every day."

Our butler exchanged a nervous glance with me, unsure of what to say.

Xavier smirked.

"Let her throw a tantrum. She'll be back crawling like a dog in three days."

I could hear the servants snickering behind their hands. They even started a betting pool to see if I'd last the night.

No one noticed the suitcase I had tucked away by the foyer earlier.

"One more thing." Xavier's voice stopped me as I turned to leave.

"Give Natalie your heirloom bracelet. She hasn't been sleeping well."

It was the only keepsake I had left from my deceased parents.

I gripped my wrist, my nails digging into my palms.

"Name your price," he said, sounding like he was making a business transaction.

I remembered the ski resort last month—how Xavier had taken my coat and left me standing in minus-twenty-degree snow because I hadn't given Natalie my goggles.

As I unclasped the bracelet, I forced a smile at Natalie.

"May your child be healthy and safe."

For the first time, Xavier looked pleased.

"As long as you behave, my child could be yours too."

The bracelet slipped from my fingers before he finished speaking. The jade shards scraped Natalie's calf, drawing blood.

"Sophia!" Xavier grabbed me by the hair and yanked me forward.

"Apologize!"

I fell to my knees, the sharp fragments cutting into my skin. The pain was blinding.

The scene felt sickeningly familiar—every time Natalie gave a disapproving look, I'd kneel and beg for forgiveness.

The soup was too bland? Sorry.

Texting him to check if he was safe after late-night meetings? Sorry.