He Drained My Blood to Save His First Love,So I Let Myself Die

The night of the car accident, Oliver Gilbert ordered his people to draw the last bag of blood from my body to save his first love.

The doctor dropped to his knees trying to stop him.

“Mr. Gilbert, your wife has Rh-negative blood and a congenital clotting disorder. If you take any more, she will die!”

But Oliver shoved the doctor aside, his eyes bloodshot.

“Save Nanette first. Shirley Winfield's tough. She can take it.”

Our seven-year-old daughter was draped over Nanette Harding's hospital bed. She turned back to me, tears streaming down her face.

“Mommy, please save Aunt Nanette.”

“You'll just bleed a little, you won't die. But if Aunt Nanette gets sicker, there won't be anyone to do the parent-child dance recital with me.”

I was pinned to the hospital bed, watching the syringe drain me drop by drop.

In that moment, I finally gave up on the two of them for good.

After they brought me back, Oliver showed up outside my room every single day with Phoebe Gilbert, begging me to forgive him.

Piles of supplements, jewelry, and apology letters were sent in. I accepted none of it. Even when Phoebe spiked a fever and sobbed for her mommy, I kept my eyes shut.

Until a voice I hadn't heard in a long time finally sounded in my head.

“Host vitals detected below critical threshold. Death will trigger departure from this world.”

Oliver was gripping my wrist, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Shirley, are you done with this tantrum? Are you really going to abandon your own daughter?”

I looked at him calmly, and then I smiled.

The next second, I ripped out the IV line and, without a moment's hesitation, dragged a shard of glass from the bedside table across my wrist.

——

When I opened my eyes again, Oliver was sitting at the edge of the bed. His suit was a crumpled mess. The moment he saw I was awake, something fierce lit up behind his eyes, and he reached for my face.

I stared at that hand. The same hand that, just last night, had held me down while I struggled and told the doctor,

“Draw it. Save Nanette first.”

I turned my head away and looked down at the thick layers of gauze wrapped around my wrist.

Then I yanked my hand up and tore the bandage clean off. The freshly sutured wound split open, and blood soaked through the white gauze in an instant.

Oliver's pupils contracted. He seized my wrist, his voice shaking.

“Shirley! What are you doing?!”

He pressed me back against the bed. My wrist throbbed until it went numb, but all I felt was relief.

“Oliver, stop saving me. Being alive means nothing to me anymore.”

The room went deathly silent. The flicker of panic in Oliver's eyes was quickly smothered by anger.

“How long are you going to keep this up? I know taking your blood last night was wrong. I didn't think it through.”

“But Nanette was in a car accident and Phoebe was hysterical. What was I supposed to do?”

“Besides, every other time they resuscitated you and you were fine, weren't you?”

I stared at him, and the realization settled over me like ice water. In his mind, every time I had clawed my way back from the edge of death, it was just a routine resuscitation. No big deal. She was fine.

I laughed. Oliver's expression darkened.

“What's so funny?”

A wave of exhaustion crashed through me. I wrenched my hand free, cutting him off.

“Mr. Gilbert, please leave.”

He went rigid.

“What did you just call me?”

I didn't look at him again. I used to call him by his first name, back when I stood beside him as he went from a nobody doctor to the Mr. Gilbert everyone bowed to.

Now even rolling those two syllables across my tongue made me sick.

Oliver's gaze drifted to the trash can beside the bed. Inside it sat a clear storage box.

My wedding ring, necklace, bracelet, brooch. I had taken them off one by one and dropped them all in.

On top lay a greeting card Phoebe had drawn for me when she was four. I used to treasure these things like they were sacred. Now they belonged exactly where I'd put them.

Oliver stared at that card, and the color drained from his face inch by inch.

He reached in and flipped open the box. Beneath the ring was the letter he had written to me when he proposed. Along with every piece of jewelry, I didn't want any of it anymore.