Weston's voice broke through the ringing in my ears. He ran toward me, his face drained of color. When he saw the blood, he pulled me into his arms, shouting, panicked, "Hold on! You'll be fine! I swear you'll be fine!"
I wanted to answer—but the world faded to black before I could speak.
"Weston, are you sure this won't endanger Denise's life?"
Inside the ambulance, Vivian looked at my pale, bloodless face and finally broke the silence.
"Relax, Mom," Weston replied calmly, his tone disturbingly cold. "I've handled her miscarriages before, haven't I? I know what I'm doing."
He said it like he was discussing a business transaction, not a life.
"Besides," he continued indifferently, "Patricia is also the daughter you raised for eighteen years. You can't be this biased. She's dying, yet all you worry about is Denise?"
Vivian frowned, glancing at me on the stretcher before lowering her voice.
"Biased? Do you even know why I brought Denise back in the first place?" she said, her tone tinged with panic. "It's because Patricia has a rare blood disease, and only Denise's blood type matches hers!"