The wife who used as a tool by her husband

The sharp beep of a heart monitor pierced the fog in my brain.

Pain radiated through my ribs, hot and blinding, pinning me to the mattress. I tried to shift my weight, but my limbs felt like lead. A cervical collar gripped my neck, forcing me to stare straight up at the sterile white ceiling panels.

My hands drifted down to my stomach.

The car crash. The screeching tires. The shattered glass.

Is my baby safe?

Panic clawed at my throat. I opened my mouth to call for a nurse, but the sound died on my tongue.

Voices drifted through the crack in the hospital room door.

"Mr. Thorne, step away from the corridor," a man murmured. The voice belonged to a doctor.

"Is my wife prepped for the procedure?" Michael asked.

His tone held no panic. No grief. It was the same flat, commanding voice he used during board meetings.

"She is stable," the doctor replied. "But I need to address the reality of this situation before we proceed."

"There is no reality to discuss, Doctor Miller. There is only a patient who needs a transplant, and a donor who is currently unconscious."

"The police are investigating the crash."

"Let them investigate. They will find a tired truck driver who lost control of his vehicle. My legal team is already handling his settlement."

"You bribed a man to ram your vehicle."

"I paid a man to clip the passenger side," Michael corrected him, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He executed it perfectly."

My blood turned to ice.

He paid someone. My husband paid someone to hit us.

"Mr. Thorne," Dr. Miller said, his tone thick with disbelief. "You just wanted your wife to donate bone marrow to Ms. Judy. Why orchestrate this car crash?"

"Because my wife is stubborn."

"Stubborn?"

"If I sat her down and asked her to undergo a painful, invasive extraction to save my ex-girlfriend, how do you think she would react?"

"She might have agreed. Out of compassion."

"I do not gamble with Judy's life on the hope of my wife's compassion," Michael snapped. "How else would she willingly get on the operating table?"

"This is criminal."

"This is guaranteed. With her minor injuries, she is bedridden. She is confined to that mattress. Donating the bone marrow is foolproof this way. Now, hand me the clipboard."

"You are signing the consent form on her behalf?"

"As her husband, yes. I hold her medical proxy."

The scratch of a pen echoed through the quiet hallway. He was signing away my body. He was signing away my marrow for Judy.

"Wait," Dr. Miller interrupted.

"What now?"

"The lab rushed her blood work. Look at this chart."

"Speak plain English, Doctor."

"Her HCG levels are elevated. Mrs. Thorne is pregnant."

The monitor beside my bed spiked. My heart hammered against my ribs, desperate to break free.

"Pregnant?" Michael repeated.

"About six weeks," the doctor explained. "If we move forward with the marrow extraction, given the trauma she has already endured today and the heavy medications required... the fetus will not survive. You have to call this off."

Silence stretched between them.

Cancel it, Michael. Please. Cancel the surgery.

"No," Michael said.

"Mr. Thorne, you are talking about terminating a pregnancy."

"I said no. We proceed."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Lina and I will have other children," Michael stated, his voice devoid of a single ounce of hesitation. "But right now, the bone marrow donation is what matters. That was the primary reason I married her in the first place."

A violent sob ripped through my chest, but the sound was trapped behind the oxygen mask.

The primary reason.

Our marriage. Our home. The late-night whispers and the gentle kisses. All of it was a lie, engineered to secure a matching donor for his sick first love.

The door swung open. A nurse stepped into my line of sight, holding a syringe.

"Time for the sedative," she murmured, unaware that I was awake.

I tried to thrash. I tried to scream.

The needle pierced my IV port. Cold fluid raced up my arm, heavy and fast. The white ceiling dissolved into gray, and then into absolute black.

***

A damp cloth dragged across my forehead.

"Lina? Sweetheart, open your eyes."

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. Michael’s face hovered over mine. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like the picture of a devoted, terrified husband.

"Michael," I rasped.

"I am right here. You are safe."

"What happened?" I asked, testing him.

"A truck ran the red light. It hit your side of the car. I was so terrified, Lina."

"My stomach feels empty."

"The doctors had to do an emergency procedure. You had internal bleeding."

"Did you know?" I asked, staring directly into his dark eyes.

"Know what?"

"Did you know we had a baby?"

Michael’s face crumpled into a mask of perfect agony. He grabbed my hand and pressed my knuckles to his cheek.

"The doctor told me when you were in surgery," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I am so sorry, baby. It is my fault. I was driving. I didn't protect you."

Bile rose in my throat.

"You didn't protect me."

"The impact was too severe. The surgeon tried everything, but the trauma was too much. We lost the baby."

"My baby is gone."

"We will have more children," he pleaded, kissing my fingers. "I promise you. Once you recover, we will try again."

"Don't touch me."

"Lina, please. I am grieving too."

"I am tired. I want to sleep."

I pulled my hand away from his grip and turned my head toward the window. The disgust twisted in my gut, hot and suffocating.

"Mr. Thorne?" A nurse stepped into the room.

"Yes?"

"Your wife needs rest."

"I know." Michael stood up, smoothing his wrinkled shirt. "Lina, I hired a private caretaker. Her name is Martha. She will be right outside the door."

"Where are you going?"

"I have to step out. There is a crisis at work because of the accident. The board is panicking. I need to show my face on a video conference and assure them the company is stable."

"Work."

"I will be back tonight. I love you," he whispered, leaning down to kiss my temple.

I kept my eyes shut. I did not flinch. I did not breathe until his footsteps faded into the hallway and the door clicked shut.

When I finally opened my eyes, the room was empty.

Work. What an absolute joke.

I knew exactly where he was going. Judy’s VIP recovery suite was in this exact hospital, just three floors up. He was going to hold her hand while my marrow pumped into her veins.

I pressed my palm against my flat, aching stomach.

He killed our child to save her. He stole my body, destroyed my baby, and expected me to play the role of the grieving, clueless wife.

A nurse walked in to check my monitors, humming a quiet tune.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, Mrs. Thorne? Do you need water?"

"No. I need to borrow your phone."