No Longer the Obedient Wife

But I didn't get the chance to leave.

While Anabelle’s delicate condition became the center of whispered concern in Armand’s world, I was nothing more than a convenient fix—his personal blood reserve.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Armand said, his voice devoid of warmth. “She needs blood. You’re the only compatible donor.”

“I won’t,” I murmured, stepping back from the chair. “Armand, I’m barely standing. I haven’t eaten in days—my body can’t take this.”

“Then start eating,” he said flatly. “Sleep. Recover. Do whatever it takes. You’ll be strong enough when I say so.”

He scribbled his signature across the consent forms before I could object.

The doctor hesitated, pulling him aside. “Mr. Cavaliere, her vitals are unstable. If we draw this volume, we risk cardiac collapse. She could die.”

Armand didn’t flinch. “As long as Anabelle and the baby make it out alive, that’s all that matters.”

The needle dug into my vein. Cold spread through my arm. My limbs turned numb as the world tilted sideways.

“Don’t move,” Armand muttered. “You’re making this messier than it has to be.”

I wanted to speak, to curse him—but my voice was gone. So I stayed quiet.

By the time they drained 800cc, my fingernails were blue and my breath came in shallow bursts. Then a soft cough broke the silence—Anabelle’s, from the bedroom.

Armand’s gaze sharpened. He stepped forward, brushing the doctor aside. “Double the draw. Now.”

The doctor’s hands trembled. “Mr. Cavaliere she won’t survive that.”

A heartbeat passed.

“She’s not carrying my child. Anabelle is.”

The doctor hesitated.

“D-do it,” I cut in, my voice hoarse. “But once it’s done, I’m gone. For good.”

Armand’s eyes narrowed, jaw ticking with fury. I could see the insult forming on his tongue, something cruel about loyalty and weakness. He stepped toward me...

Then Anabelle’s voice floated through the door. “Armand...”

He didn’t look back at me. Just turned, and walked away. Left me bleeding. Barely breathing. Forgotten.

***

Two days later

I woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint decay of flowers someone forgot to throw away. My limbs were heavy, distant. Like they belonged to a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet.

Armand sat by the bed, scrolling through his phone like he was waiting for a taxi, not watching over the woman he'd nearly bled dry.

“You're finally up,” he muttered, not even looking at me. He stood and extended a cup of water like it was some grand gesture. “Drink. You look like hell.”

I turned my face away. “Don’t touch me.”

He scoffed, setting the cup down with a clink. “You’re always so damn dramatic.”

“I needed you,” I whispered, voice raw. “But you chose her. Again.”

“I made a decision,” he said coldly. “One that kept people alive. You don’t get to guilt-trip me for that.”

“No,” I murmured, eyes locked on his. “You didn’t save a life. You chose the one that mattered more to you.”

His jaw ticked, that familiar storm building behind his eyes. “You know what your problem is? You think everything’s about you. Always the victim. Always so delicate. Maybe if you weren’t so weak—”

I didn’t flinch. “Say it, Armand. Say it louder. Maybe then you'll finally hear yourself.”

He exhaled through his nose, frustrated, and sat back down, flipping through papers like the conversation bored him.

A knock broke the venomous quiet. A nurse stepped in with a tray of soup, avoiding eye contact.

“She hasn’t eaten since the transfusion,” she said softly to him.

“I’m aware,” Armand snapped. “Leave it.”

Once the nurse was gone, he picked up the spoon and walked over again.

“Eat,” he said curtly. “Unless you plan on making a career out of fainting.”

I stared at the spoon like it was poison. “You don't get to play caretaker now. Not after what you did.”

His expression turned cold—empty, even. He placed the spoon back on the tray with slow precision.

“You want to act like this is betrayal?” he said, voice low. “Fine. Play the martyr. Starve yourself. Throw another tantrum. It's all you seem to do lately.”

My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I reached for it, hand trembling.

Ten missed calls. All from Marco.

The most recent message blinked on the screen:

> Sof, where are you? This isn’t like you. I’m coming. This doesn’t feel right.

Armand’s eyes flicked to the phone. The shift in his face was instant.

“Who the hell is Marco?” he growled.

I looked at him, unblinking. “The only one who still sees me as a person, not a problem to manage.”

His mouth opened, ready to strike back—

But then his own phone vibrated. Anabelle.

He hesitated.

And I didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask him to stay. Didn’t ask who needed what now.

He grabbed his phone and walked out without a second glance. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was armor. And in that stillness—drained, hollow, invisible—I made myself a promise:

Next time, I wouldn’t survive this as Armand Cavaliere’s forgotten wife.

I’d survive this as Harriet. The woman he never saw coming.