A cold fist clenched around her heart, stealing her breath for a second. It was him. He was calling her. She carefully placed her brush down, her fingers smudged with paint. She wiped them on a rag, took a deep, shaky breath, and answered, forcing her voice into a calm, even tone.
"Hello?"
"Be at St. Mary's private clinic in Greenwich Village. You have thirty minutes."
Julian's voice was like ice water through the line-cold, clear, and devoid of any emotion. No greeting, no preamble. Just a command.
The fist around her heart tightened. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
A sound of impatience, a sharp exhale on his end. "It's not me. It's Ava. There was an accident. She needs a transfusion. You're Rh-null."
The air left her lungs in a rush. The studio, once her sanctuary, suddenly felt like a cage. He remembered. He remembered her rare, so-called 'golden blood,' not out of concern for her, but because it could be of use to Ava. The thought made her stomach churn. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.
"I..." she started, the word of refusal forming on her tongue.
"Chloe." His voice dropped, losing its clipped efficiency and gaining a dangerous edge. "Don't make me repeat myself." A beat of silence, then the final, crushing blow. "Think about your father. Archer Group's loan is up for review next month."
She bit down on her lip, the taste of blood a faint, metallic tang. This was the foundation of their marriage. A transaction. A safety net for her family in exchange for her life. The hope on her canvas seemed to mock her.
A desperate, pathetic bargain rose from the depths of her humiliation.
"If I go," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "will you come home for dinner tonight?"
The silence on the other end stretched for an eternity. She could picture him perfectly-standing somewhere sterile and expensive, loosening his tie with one hand, his expression carved from stone.
Finally, a clipped, dismissive sound. "Fine."
Then the line went dead.
Chloe stood motionless, the phone still pressed to her ear. The unfinished painting stared back at her, its light now looking garish and false. She moved with a mechanical slowness, stripping off her paint-splattered apron and jeans, pulling on a simple dress. She didn't look in the mirror. She couldn't bear to see the look in her own eyes.
The ride through the city was a blur of yellow cabs and indifferent faces. Each stoplight, each traffic jam, felt like a personal torment. Her mind was a maelstrom of fear for a woman she despised and a profound, aching sorrow for herself.
St. Mary's was all white marble and hushed efficiency. She saw him immediately, standing at the end of a long, sterile corridor, speaking urgently with a doctor. Julian was immaculate in his dark suit, not a single hair out of place. He was completely unharmed.
He saw her and gestured impatiently, a flick of his wrist, like he was summoning a subordinate. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a flicker of relief that his asset had arrived on time.
The doctor, a kind-faced older man, explained the situation. Ava Hayes. Car accident. Severe blood loss. Her blood was the only match available in the city on such short notice.
Chloe's gaze drifted to the door of the emergency room. Through the small glass window, she could see a pale, still figure on the bed, hooked up to a web of tubes and monitors. Ava. His childhood friend. The woman he'd loved before their families had arranged his marriage to Chloe. The ghost that haunted every room of their house.
The last of her defenses crumbled. She turned to Julian, her voice trembling with a grief so deep it felt like a physical wound.
"I'm just her walking blood bank, aren't I?"
He flinched, his gaze finally meeting hers before skittering away to the door of Ava's room. "Don't be dramatic, Chloe. A life is at stake. Name your price later, whatever you want."
A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. Price. It always came down to a price. She gave up. She turned to the waiting nurse, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Let's do it."
The needle was a cold, sharp sting in the crook of her arm. She watched her own blood, dark and rich, flow through the clear tube. 400cc. A standard donation, the nurse had said cheerfully. It felt like she was being drained of life itself.
Through it all, Julian stood guard outside Ava's room, his back to her, his entire focus on the woman behind the glass. He never once looked back.
When it was over, a wave of cold and weakness washed through her. The nurse gave her a cup of lukewarm water and a packet of cookies, which she couldn't bring herself to eat. She sat on a hard plastic chair in the hallway, her body shivering.
A few minutes later, a murmur came from the room. Julian's head snapped up. He immediately pushed through the door. Chloe watched through the glass as he rushed to Ava's bedside, his face softening with a tenderness and concern she had never, not once in two years of marriage, seen directed at her. He smoothed Ava's hair from her forehead, his touch gentle, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
Chloe finally understood. She wasn't just a tool. She was a disposable one.
She stood up, her legs unsteady. She didn't interrupt the tender scene. She simply turned and walked away, her own blood now flowing through another woman's veins.
The cold New York air hit her face like a slap. She felt hollowed out, lost. She pulled out her phone and stared at Julian's name. The promise of dinner felt like a cruel joke from a lifetime ago.
She hailed a cab, the motion automatic.
"The Sinclair townhouse on the Upper East Side," she told the driver, her voice as empty as the space in her chest.
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