His Walking Blood Bank: The Unwanted Wife

Emilia Lancaster gently traced the rim of her wine glass. In the silent restaurant, the Wellington beef and the Romanée-Conti remained untouched.

This perfect dinner was staged solely for a perfect lie of a marriage.

She glanced at the Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet on her wrist—the only personal gift Delano had given her in their three years of marriage, offered with the coldness of a business transaction.

This marriage was nothing more than a deal she had struck to salvage her family's decline. For three years, she had played the flawless wife, yet had never managed to thaw his icy heart.

The antique clock on the wall chimed eight. He was an hour late.

Her phone buzzed on the silk tablecloth. "Delano."

A knot of anticipation tightened in her stomach. She answered, her voice betraying a hope she couldn't quite suppress.

"Are you on your way?"

"I have an emergency meeting at the office. I won't be back tonight." His voice was cold, distant. "You should get some sleep."

No explanation. No reference to the wedding anniversary.

Emilia's fingers whitened around her phone. She heard a faint cough from a woman in the background, which instantly shattered the last shred of hope she had clung to in her heart. She forced herself to ignore the suffocating doubt, yet could not stop the cold despair that surged up from deep within.

"Delano, today is our—"

"I know," he cut her off, his tone flat. "I had Arthur bring your gift to you."

The line went dead.

She stood frozen, the hope in her chest collapsing into a cold, empty cavern. Three years of trying, shattered in a single, careless sentence.

Her phone lit up again. A text from an unknown number.

She almost deleted it, assuming it was spam. But the preview text made her hand freeze.

"Mrs. Gates, want to know who your husband is really with tonight?"

Her thumb trembled as she opened the message. It contained a series of screenshots. A conversation between Fanny, Delano's ex‑girlfriend, and Delano.

The first image: "Fanny: Delano, thank you. The doctor said my levels are much more stable after this transfusion. Your 'mobile blood bank' is really effective."

The second: "Delano: As it should be. Take care of yourself. Emilia's Rh-null blood is stable. I'll ensure the supply."

The third: "Fanny: It's your third anniversary and you're with me. Won't Emilia be upset?"

"Delano: She doesn't have the right to be."

Emilia's vision blurred. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing softly on the Persian rug. Delano's words burned on the screen.

Her rare "golden blood." That was the true foundation of this marriage. She wasn't a wife. She was a walking, breathing blood bag.

A laugh escaped her lips, dry and brittle, growing louder until it filled the silent room with a sound of pure, desolate mockery.

Slowly, she bent down and picked up the phone. The tears she expected never came. There was only a chilling, absolute clarity.

She walked upstairs to the study, her steps steady.

She opened her laptop and, without a moment's hesitation, composed an email to her personal lawyer.

The subject line was simple: "Divorce."

The body of the email was even simpler: "David, please draft the divorce papers immediately. As soon as possible."

After hitting send, she opened an encrypted folder. Inside were three years of carefully, quietly collected records of Gates Corporation's more questionable dealings.

She returned to the dining room. She looked at the perfect, untouched meal. She picked up the bottle of Romanée-Conti.

She walked to the kitchen sink, twisted the cork, and poured the entire bottle of deep red liquid down the drain.

When the bottle was empty, she felt a profound, unnerving sense of peace.

She turned and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Arthur Reynolds, the head butler, entered moments later, holding a velvet jewelry box. He stopped, staring at the empty dining room and the crimson stains in the pristine white sink.

Emilia went to her bedroom and locked the door. She sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, waiting for the dawn.