He Drained My Blood for His White Moonlight

The harsh click of the emergency room sign shutting off echoed down the sterile corridor. I sat slumped in a wheelchair, a thin hospital blanket draped over my trembling knees.

Dr. Amelia pushed through the swinging doors. She ripped her surgical mask off, her face tight with exhaustion.

"Mrs. Damien is out of danger for now," Dr. Amelia announced, marching straight up to Damien. "But she suffered a threatened miscarriage and severe anemia. Her body cannot sustain another blood draw."

Damien stood by the window. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

"Her iron levels are critically low," Dr. Amelia added, crossing her arms. "The placenta is under extreme stress. Another drop in her blood volume will trigger early labor. The fetus won't survive."

"I understand," Damien replied, his voice flat.

"I need to make this absolutely clear," Dr. Amelia pressed on, stepping directly into his line of sight. "If you force her to give blood again, the next time you won't just lose the child. You might lose her life."

Silence stretched across the hallway. I gripped the plastic armrests of my chair. I waited for him to show a shred of concern. I waited for him to look at me.

He didn't.

Damien shifted his gaze over the doctor’s shoulder, anchoring his attention on the ICU doors at the far end of the hall. "How is Celeste?"

Dr. Amelia froze. She stared at him in pure disbelief. "Your wife just nearly lost her child."

A muscle feathered along Damien’s jawline. "I heard you."

"Then how can you—"

"When will Celeste wake up?" Damien interrupted. His tone held zero warmth, zero empathy.

I let out a dry, cracked laugh. The sound scraped against my own throat, startling the nearby nurses. Dr. Amelia turned to look at me, her eyes filled with deep pity. She finally realized that my husband's coldness was far more blinding than the surgical lights inside the operating room.

***

Ten minutes later, a nurse wheeled me down the hall. We stopped outside the ICU glass partition just as Celeste’s eyelids fluttered open.

Damien shoved the double doors open and strode straight to her bedside.

"I'm sorry," Celeste whispered. The intercom speaker above the window crackled, carrying her fragile voice into the hallway. "I caused so much trouble. Aria must hate me."

Tears spilled over her pale cheeks, soaking into her pillow.

"I didn't mean to take your attention away from her," Celeste continued, her voice trembling. "She's carrying your child, Damien. You should be with her. I can manage on my own."

Damien reached out. His large hand enveloped hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"You don't have to apologize," he said. His voice dropped to a gentle, soothing pitch I had never heard before. "You saved my life when we were young. I won't let anything happen to you."

I pressed my palm against my chest. My fingers curled around the broken silver iris pendant hidden beneath my hospital gown. The jagged metal dug sharply into my skin.

Fifteen years ago, the smell of burning rubber and gasoline choked the air. I dragged a bleeding boy from a wrecked car. I slashed my own wrist with a piece of shattered glass to feed him my blood when he was dying of thirst. I pressed half of this very pendant into his palm before the darkness swallowed me.

When I woke up, my adoptive parents had moved me away.

Years later, Celeste appeared with the other half of the necklace. She claimed the scars, the rescue, the credit. I tried to tell him the truth once. He looked at Celeste’s pendant and called me a liar.

A tiny, fluttering kick tapped against my palm resting on my stomach.

I stared through the glass at my husband comforting the thief who stole my past. It wasn't that no one knew the truth. It was that Damien simply didn't want to believe me.

***

"Sign it."

Eleanor Damien stepped into my line of sight, blocking the window. She dropped a thick manila folder directly onto my lap. The bold black letters on the cover read *Long-Term Medical Authorization*.

I flipped the cover open. My eyes scanned the highlighted clause: *Unconditional provision of blood and related medical cooperation.*

I pushed the folder off my lap. It hit the linoleum floor with a loud smack. "I won't sign."

Eleanor’s perfectly manicured hands curled into fists. Her lips thinned into a cruel line. "Don't forget why you were allowed to marry into the Damien family. Without Damien paying your adoptive father’s medical bills, without our resources investigating your background, you are nothing."

I lifted my chin, meeting her furious glare. "I agreed to a marriage. I didn't agree to sell my life."

"Your adoptive father is still in our private facility," Eleanor reminded me, her tone laced with venom. "Do you want us to halt his treatments? Because I can make one phone call right now."

"You wouldn't," I whispered.

"Try me," she challenged.

Heavy footsteps approached from the ICU. Damien stopped beside his mother, his dark suit impeccable, his expression unreadable.

"Tell her to sign the agreement," Eleanor snapped, pointing a finger at the fallen folder.

Damien looked down at me. His dark eyes flicked to my collarbone, pausing on the silver iris pendant resting against my pale skin. A brief flash of confusion crossed his features. He tilted his head, as if a buried memory tried to claw its way to the surface.

Then he blinked, erasing the emotion completely.

"Sign it," he ordered.

I stared up at the man I had loved since I was a child. "What if the next blood draw kills the baby?"

Damien held my gaze. His expression remained utterly blank. "The doctors will manage the risk."

The last fragments of my hope shattered.

***

I didn't sign the papers. I pushed myself up from the wheelchair, ignoring the sharp pull in my lower abdomen, and walked away from them.

The hospital lobby buzzed with frantic activity. I leaned against a cool marble pillar near the main entrance, trying to catch my breath. A group of Damien Group executives stood near the reception desk, clutching extravagant bouquets and designer gift bags.

"I heard she almost miscarried just now," a man in a navy suit muttered, glancing in my direction.

"She just drew a little blood. She's acting like she's dying," a blonde woman replied, rolling her eyes.

"Did you see the necklace she wears? Looks like cheap junk."

"She's from a bankrupt family. What do you expect? She doesn't belong in our world."

"She only got to stay by Mr. Damien's side to act as Miss Monroe's blood supply."

"Exactly. Once Miss Monroe recovers, this temporary wife will have to step down."

I stopped walking. My fingernails bit into the tender flesh of my palms, leaving deep crescent-shaped indents.

I didn't turn around. I didn't argue. I just kept walking toward the revolving glass doors. The rumors were right. In two years of marriage, Damien had never announced me to the public. I was a ghost in his house, a shadow in his life, and a walking blood bank for the woman he truly loved.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out. A text message from Claire Morgan, Damien’s executive secretary, lit up the cracked screen.

*Mr. Damien wants you at the company. Immediately. Bring the original marriage agreement.*

I stared at the glowing letters. The cold from the hospital floor seemed to seep straight through my shoes, freezing my blood.

He wanted the agreement.

He wanted a divorce.