I Recorded His Plan to Harvest Our Baby’s Blood

The soothing voice of my yoga instructor still echoed in my mind as I waddled—yes, at eight months pregnant, there was no other word for it—into our Manhattan penthouse. I instinctively caressed my swollen belly, feeling my baby shift beneath my touch. Our baby. Mine and Alexander's. The thought still made me smile, even after five months of marriage. "Alexander?" I called out, dropping my yoga mat by the entryway. Silence greeted me. Strange. His Bentley was in the garage, so he must be home. I kicked off my shoes, relishing the cool marble beneath my swollen feet.

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Chapter 2

My hands trembled as I placed the tiny voice recorder behind Alexander's leather-bound collection of Tolstoy. The device was barely larger than my thumbnail—a desperate purchase from an electronics store three blocks away, paid for in cash. I'd never done anything like this before. But then again, I'd never discovered my entire marriage was a lie designed to harvest my unborn child.

The blue glow of Alexander's computer screen illuminated the shrine of Isabella's photographs surrounding me. Each image felt like a silent witness to my humiliation. I carefully adjusted the recorder, ensuring its microphone faced outward. If Alexander discovered it... I pushed the thought away and slipped back toward the door.

A notification chimed on his computer. I froze, torn between fear of discovery and desperate need for information. The calendar app was open. My eyes locked on tomorrow's entry: "Emergency Birth Protocol – 2 PM." Several other entries followed: "Mount Sinai prep – Dr. Finch," "Extraction team standby," "Isabella admission – private wing."

They had it all planned down to the minute. My baby's birth. My accident. My expendability.

I backed away, bile rising in my throat, and silently closed the study door behind me.

"Sophia! There you are!"

I nearly screamed at the sound of Isabella's voice. She stood in our foyer, unwinding a Hermès scarf from her neck. Her complexion was pallid, almost translucent—the visible mark of her disease—but her smile was radiant. Knowing what I now knew, that smile chilled me to the bone.

"Isabella," I managed, one hand instinctively moving to protect my belly. "I didn't know you were coming by."

"Just a quick visit." She glided toward me, her movements graceful despite her illness. She air-kissed my cheeks, her lips never quite touching my skin. "You look... healthy."

The way she assessed my pregnant body made me feel like livestock being appraised at auction.

"Alexander's on a call," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Perfect timing then." Isabella's eyes gleamed. "I wanted to check on my favorite sister-in-law."

She followed me to the kitchen where I busied myself making tea, grateful for the distraction. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"So," Isabella perched on a barstool, watching me with unsettling intensity. "Tomorrow's the big day for the nursery delivery, isn't it?"

My blood ran cold. The nursery delivery was scheduled for next week.

"Actually, it's next Friday," I corrected her, testing.

"Oh." A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. "I must have misunderstood. I thought Alexander mentioned something about tomorrow being... significant."

"Did he?" I placed a mug before her with deliberate care. "What else did he say about tomorrow?"

"Just that the timing is critical." Her fingers drummed against the marble countertop. "Optimal extraction conditions don't present themselves every day."

Extraction. The same clinical term Dr. Finch had used. I nearly dropped the kettle.

"Extraction?" I echoed.

Isabella's smile tightened. "Of furniture from the delivery truck, of course. What did you think I meant?"

Before I could respond, Alexander's voice boomed from the hallway. "Isabella! What a surprise."

The warmth in his voice when addressing her—compared to the polite affection he showed me—suddenly made perfect sense.

That evening, I sat across from Alexander at dinner, studying the face of the man I'd pursued for three years. The man I'd believed loved me. The man who'd only married me for my womb.

"I was thinking," I ventured, keeping my tone light, "maybe we should review our hospital plan again? Just to be prepared."

Alexander reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "Everything's arranged, darling. The best suite at Mount Sinai, the top obstetric team."

"And if something unexpected happens?" I pressed. "If I go into labor early?"

"Then we'll handle it." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "I've planned for every contingency."

I'm sure you have, I thought bitterly.

Later that night, while Alexander showered, I hunched over my laptop, medical journals illuminating my face in the darkness. Article after article confirmed what I'd overheard: trauma-induced emergency deliveries yielded higher viability in cord blood extraction. The staged accident wasn't just about forcing an early delivery—it was about maximizing the blood quality for Isabella.

They weren't just planning to take my baby early. They were planning to traumatize us both for better results.

As I closed the laptop, one terrible truth crystallized in my mind: tomorrow, Alexander would choose between me and Isabella. And I already knew his choice.

Continue to next part

My husband, Alexander, systematically destroyed my career as a prima ballerina. For years, I was the star of the New York City Ballet, but he ensured every major award went to his mistresses. The final insult was watching him hand my Starlight Award to his latest plaything, Cassie. Then I discovered a truth far more monstrous. He had helped Cassie' s brother escape justice after brutally assaulting my fragile sister, Grace. For two years, he used Grace' s expensive medical care as leverage, holding her hostage to ensure my obedience while he paraded his affairs in my face. At a public gala, Cassie tormented my sister with the truth of her assault until Grace, broken and terrified, jumped from the rooftop to her death. In a desperate attempt to save her, I leaped after her into the abyss. I had endured everything for Grace. His cruelty, the public humiliation, the death of my career. Now she was gone, murdered by his twisted games. But I survived the fall. And as I lay in that hospital bed, I made a new vow. I wouldn't just get a divorce. I would gather the evidence, expose his crimes, and burn his entire empire to the ground.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.8

BET. BOUGHT. OWNED. THE BILLIONAIRE'S PROPERTY

9.8

Janet thought she had finally escaped a life where she was only seen as property. Born to a father who never wanted a daughter and abandoned by a mother who vanished without a second glance, she grew up knowing she would never be truly loved. When her father sold her to a ruthless billionaire named Chris to settle a debt, she ran. She thought she found freedom in James... the man she chose. The man she loved. But love betrayed her. Drowning in debt, James made a desperate gamble… and staked the unthinkable...his wife. And when the cards turned against him, he lost everything. Including Janet. Now, Janet finds herself back in the hands of the man she once fled. But Chris doesn’t want her love. He doesn’t even believe in it. Love, to him, is weakness. Women, in his eyes, are meant to be owned, controlled, and used. She was never meant to matter. She was meant to obey. But Janet refuses to break quietly. Chris wants submission. He wants an heir. But Janet wants her freedom...and maybe even revenge. Will she be able to forgive James, the man who placed her as a bet? And will Chris succeed in bending her to his will — or will she shatter his instead? Two wills. One house. One brutal game of power, betrayal, and survival. Who wins when the prize refuses to be owned?

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.0

Betrayed at the Altar

9.0

The candlelight flickered across the cream-colored walls of the Plaza Hotel's bridal suite, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mimic the flutter of excitement in my chest. I smoothed my fingers over the handwritten vows in my lap, the elegant script a testament to three years of devotion. "I, Skylar Wheeler, take you, Davis Martinez..." I whispered the words aloud, practicing the moment I'd rehearsed countless times in my mind. My fingers instinctively reached for the jade pendant hanging around my neck—my grandfather Elijah's final gift before cancer claimed him. The cool stone felt reassuring against my skin. "Grandpa," I murmured, "if you could see me now. Tomorrow, I'll give this to Davis, just as you always wanted." The pendant had been in our family for generations, a symbol of protection and unconditional love. Grandpa had insisted it would bring me to the man who deserved my heart. For years, I'd clung to that promise, even when Davis's family faced financial ruin. Three years ago, I'd found Davis at his lowest—his family's empire crumbling, debts mounting into the millions.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.8

The Curvy Ex-Wife's Revenge: The Divorce He Gave, The Regret He Earned

8.8

Nicole had entered marriage with Walter, a man who never returned her feelings, bound to him through an arrangement made by their families rather than by choice. Even so, she had held onto the quiet belief that time might soften his heart and that one day he would learn to love her. However, that day never came. Instead, he treated her with constant contempt, tearing her down with cruel words and dismissing her as fat and manipulative whenever it suited him. After two years of a cold and distant marriage, Walter demanded a divorce, delivering his decision in the most degrading manner he could manage. Stripped of her dignity and exhausted by the humiliation, Nicole agreed to her friend Brenda's plan to make him see what he had lost. The idea was simple but daring. She would use another man to prove that the woman Walter had mocked and insulted could still be desired by someone else. All they had to do was hire a gigolo. Patrick had endured one romantic disappointment after another. Every woman he had been involved with had been drawn not to him, but to his wealth. As one of the heirs to a powerful and influential family, he had long accepted that this pattern was almost unavoidable. What Patrick wanted was far more difficult to find. He longed to fall in love with a woman who cared for him as a person, not for the name he carried or the fortune attached to it. One night, while he was at a bar, an attractive stranger approached him. Because of his appearance and composed demeanor, she mistook him for a gigolo. She made an unconventional proposal, one that immediately caught his interest and proved impossible for him to refuse.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.7

Flash Marriage To The Secret Chairman

8.7

To escape my toxic ex-fiancé and the father who froze my assets, I entered a contract marriage with Barrett, a cold but protective corporate consultant. I thought he was my safe harbor. I even confided my secret, ruthless strategy to take back control of my company from my ex. But at the most critical board meeting, a mysterious new chairman dialed in. The synthesized voice coming through the speakerphone systematically dismantled the board and took over the company, using the exact, word-for-word strategy I had only ever whispered to my husband in the dead of night. My ex-fiancé turned pale with panic. The board members were stunned into silence. And I sat there, my blood running completely cold. The man who had held my hand in the hospital, who had slept in my bed, and who had promised to protect me, had just committed the ultimate corporate espionage. Every tender touch, every late-night confession—was it all just a calculated move to steal my life's work? How could the only person who made me feel safe use my deepest vulnerabilities to orchestrate my ruin? I packed up my files, walked straight out of that boardroom, and prepared to disappear from his life forever. But when I fled to my best friend's apartment to hide, I looked out the window. The ruthless mastermind who had just stolen my empire was standing completely still in the freezing downpour, waiting for me to come down.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.9

Her Mute Heart, His Burning Betrayal

8.9

My name is Arlie Stevens, and I was a mute girl who grew up in the shadows of the Rust Belt. My street art was our daily bread, and Bowen McClure was my protector, my first love, and my voice. But the boy who once fought off bullies for me decided to climb the social ladder by getting engaged to a ruthless corporate heiress, Kassandra Woodard. On their engagement night, Kassandra falsely accused me of ruining her gown. Bowen, my Bowen, publicly whipped me as punishment to appease her family. He told me it was to protect me, a necessary evil. Then he locked me in my room. As the party's fireworks lit up the sky, I smelled smoke. The apartment was on fire, and the door was locked from the outside. Through the flames, I heard Kassandra's voice, "Bowen locked her in. He wanted her out of the way." He didn't just abandon me; he tried to burn me alive. But I survived. And when a broken, guilt-ridden Bowen finally found me years later, begging for forgiveness after destroying the woman who orchestrated it all, I had only one thing to say to him.

Billionaire Modern Mystery

I Recorded His Plan to Harvest Our Baby’s Blood

Chapter 2

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