The Billionaire's Secret Blood Sacrifice Bride

Kendrick sat in the back of the speeding Maybach, his eyes staring blankly at the blur of the San Francisco streets.

He reached up and pressed a button on the console. The soundproof partition glided up, completely sealing him off from the driver. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, unmarked encrypted phone.

He dialed a private line. The line connected, and the sterile, rhythmic beeping of medical machinery echoed through the speaker.

"Speak," Kendrick commanded.

He rattled off the biochemical data from the blood sample he had just taken from Cora.

On the other end, Dr. Douglas let out a breathless laugh. "Perfect. The donor's kidney function has reached the absolute optimal state for transplantation. We are ready."

Kendrick's eyes darkened. "Then initiate the operating room pre-heating protocols immediately. I am not waiting another day."

Dr. Douglas hesitated, the sound of papers shuffling in the background. "Mr. Pope, the post-operative rejection risks for the recipient are still-"

"I don't care about the risks," Kendrick snapped, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "I only care about keeping Isabela alive. Do your job."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather seat. He reached up and loosened his tie. The gentle, loving mask he wore for Cora peeled away, leaving a cold, cruel smirk on his face.

The intercom on the console beeped. His chief assistant's voice came through. "Sir, the estate's internal network just intercepted an abnormal search query."

Kendrick opened the tablet mounted in front of him. He stared at the screen. Cora was actively searching the exact hematology code from the needle wrapper.

His eyes turned into chips of ice. He stared at the screen like a snake watching a mouse.

"Cut the estate's external connection. Now," Kendrick ordered.

"Should we confiscate the madam's devices, sir?" the assistant asked.

"No," Kendrick said softly. He adjusted his cuffs. "Redirect the search results. Send her to that pet genetics company website we own."

The Maybach pulled up to the towering glass facade of the Silicon Valley Consortium headquarters. Kendrick stepped out of the car, flashing a perfect, charismatic smile at the waiting executives in the lobby.

Back at the estate, Cora sat frozen in front of her laptop.

The search engine loaded. A bright, cartoonish webpage popped up on the screen. Canine DNA & Lineage Matching Services.

Cora stared at the screen. She blinked, her tense shoulders dropping an inch. She leaned closer to the monitor, the bright blue light reflecting in her wide, exhausted eyes. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, but it sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

"Dogs?" she whispered to the empty room. "It's a registry for... purebred dogs?"

She rubbed her temples, her fingers trembling slightly. A heavy, suffocating wave of self-doubt washed over her. She was losing her mind. She was projecting the horrors of her past-the trauma of Blanch locking her in the basement-onto Kendrick. He was her husband. He bought her custom gowns and kissed her forehead. Why was she looking for monsters where there were only shadows?

Yet, a tiny, cold voice in the back of her head refused to be silenced. Why would Kendrick use a veterinary needle on you? She stared at the cartoon dog on the screen, her stomach twisting into a tight, agonizing knot. She closed the laptop, forcing herself to exhale, desperately trying to gaslight herself into believing she was just being paranoid.

A sharp knock on the door made her jump. The butler walked in, followed by two maids carrying massive, orange Hermes boxes.

"Mr. Pope's instructions, madam," the butler said, bowing slightly. "He requests your presence at the Metropolitan Charity Gala tonight."

Cora walked over and lifted the lid off the largest box. Inside lay a breathtaking, custom-made haute couture gown. Next to it was a velvet case holding a diamond necklace that weighed heavy in her hands.

She ran her fingers over the cold stones. She didn't feel loved. She felt like she was touching a very expensive, very beautiful leash.

Her phone rang. It was Blanch again. This time, the call bypassed the estate's block list.

Cora answered it, pressing the phone hard against her ear.

"Your brother is in jail again!" Blanch screamed through the speaker, her voice shrill and demanding. "I need fifty thousand dollars right now, Cora. Wire it!"

"I don't have that kind of money," Cora whispered, her voice tight with panic. "I don't have access to Kendrick's accounts, Blanch. You know that."

"You lying bitch!" Blanch spat. "You're living in a mansion! You get me that money, or I'm calling the tabloids. I'll tell them exactly what kind of trash you were back in the slums."

Cora's entire body shook. The blood rushed to her ears. She slammed her thumb against the screen, hanging up the phone. Her knees gave out, and she slid down the wall, hitting the expensive Persian rug hard.

She looked up at the full-length mirror. She looked pale, weak, and utterly trapped. She couldn't keep living like this. She had to find a way to make her own money. She had to break this absolute dependence on Kendrick.

"Madam," the head of security called out from the hallway, his voice flat and impatient. "The styling team is waiting downstairs."

Cora closed her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the humiliation down into her stomach. She stood up and walked toward the dress.

An hour later, she sat in front of the vanity. The stylist carefully dabbed thick concealer over the fresh needle mark on the inside of her elbow.

"You are so lucky, Mrs. Pope," the stylist cooed, blending the makeup. "You have a husband who loves you more than anything in the world."

Cora looked at her reflection. She looked like a flawless, porcelain doll. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile that didn't reach her dead eyes.