He Called My Blood a Lie

A sudden avalanche struck the Aspen mountains, trapping our company's executive retreat in an isolated luxury resort.

In the midst of the crisis, I handed the only remaining satellite phone to my husband, Damon Hawthorne.

He contacted a private rescue team, but gave my spot to his assistant, Cathy Mason.

In front of the last private rescue helicopter, he shoved me to the ground.

I slammed hard against the icy rock, a searing agony tore through my abdomen. Blood instantly stained the snow beneath me, steaming in the frigid air.

When the paramedics tried to lift me onto a stretcher, Damon stopped them.

"Ava has a scratch. Why is she on a stretcher? Get Cathy on first. Her condition is critical—she needs to be seen at the hospital immediately!"

The rescue captain and the team's paramedic stared, dumbfounded. They looked at my blood-soaked pants, then at Cathy, who was crying her eyes out over her frostbitten fingers.

My colleague tried to argue, "But, Mr. Hawthorne, Ava's injuries are clearly more severe!"

Damon gritted his teeth and snarled, "Enough! I'm her husband. Don't you think I know her condition? If you delay Cathy's treatment, you'll answer for it. And I'll have all of your jobs for this!"

Clutching my slightly rounded belly, I nodded in pain, agreeing to let Cathy get on the helicopter first.

From this moment, I knew. My child and I owed Damon Hawthorne nothing.

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1

Once I relented, Damon Hawthorne snorted in contempt.

"I knew it," he sneered. "Always performing. Always pulling the same pathetic stunts for attention. It's disgusting."

He shoved aside the colleague who was trying to help me up, clearing a path for his assistant, Cathy Mason, to stroll to the helicopter.

The pain stole my breath, leaving me unable to scream as my body convulsed, curling into a ball in the snow.

Seeing that I wasn't screaming, Damon turned and jeered, "That shut you up, didn't it? You really are pathetic."

I could feel the warmth and life draining out of me with the blood pooling on the ground. Despair tore at my heart, and the biting Aspen wind cut across my cheeks like a knife.

My unborn child was nothing more than a stark, crimson stain on the snow, while their father was carefully draping his expensive cashmere coat over Cathy.

"Cathy, be careful. Don't hurt yourself again."

Cathy held up her barely frostbitten fingers, sobbing uncontrollably like a frightened child.

"Damon, I think my fingers are going numb. I'm so scared! If I lose my fingers... if I'm disabled... you won't want me anymore, will you?"

Damon gazed at her, his expression softening with concern. "Here, let me see." He gently blew on her reddened fingertips. "Better? Silly girl. Of course I'll always want you. Don't worry, I'll contact the best specialist in Beverly Hills for you right away. I won't let a single scar mar these beautiful fingers."

The rescue team members watched this scene in disbelief. One of them pointed at my ashen face and reminded Damon, "Sir, she's lost a lot of blood and is going into shock! She's the one who's critically injured!"

Only then did Damon glance at me impatiently. "Don't be fooled by her," Damon snapped. "She's a suspense novelist. This is what she does—she creates drama. It's just a pathetic ploy to get my attention because she's jealous. I'm her husband; I know her better than anyone."

The rescue captain's jaw nearly dropped. He shot a look between us, his disbelief warring with disgust. A husband? Damon's behavior was a cruel mockery of the word.

With that, Damon strode over, roughly yanked me up from the snow, and forced me to spin around for everyone to see. "See? She's perfectly fine. There's nothing wrong with her!"

My entire body was almost numb from the agony. As he manipulated me like a puppet, cold sweat drenched my face and neck, freezing into frost.

The paramedic beside us stared, aghast. She stammered, pointing at the crimson snow pooling beneath me. "Can't you see the blood? It's everywhere!"

Damon laughed, a chilling sound. "You must be new at this, Doc. It's prop blood. She concocts this stuff for her novels, for 'inspiration'."

He let go, and I, already exhausted, collapsed onto the hard ice. I cried out in pain, but it didn't arouse a shred of pity in him.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Sticky blood coated his fingertips, but Damon just smiled. "Ava, tell us where you bought this realistic 'prop blood.' It looks quite convincing."

Due to the intense pain and shock, my throat felt sealed shut.

Faced with Damon's humiliation, I could only shake my head, unable to utter a single word. I struggled to crawl away from the helicopter, away from them.

Fine. Let Cathy go. I just had to get away. As far away from them as possible.

I crawled on my hands and knees toward a snowmobile left by the rescue team. The shattered ice on the ground cut my palms and knees, leaving a shocking trail of bloody marks on the pristine white snow.

"Ava Monroe!" Damon's voice boomed from behind me. "Don't think this little performance gets you off the hook! You will apologize to Cathy for her hands. This is your fault!"

Before, those words would have shattered me. I would have cried, pleaded, begged him to believe me. But now, after the agony of having my child torn from me, there was nothing left inside me to care.

I clutched my now-empty belly, a sob tearing through me. This time, the debt was paid. Paid in my blood, and my child's.