The doctor hesitated, glancing between us. "Mr. Holmes, your wife just had a hysterectomy. She's extremely weak. It's not safe for her to donate blood now."
Only then did Weston seem to notice my pallor, the sweat on my brow, the tears at the corners of my eyes.
For a brief second, he froze—then his gaze hardened with disgust.
"Denise, it's just a bit of blood. You really bribed the doctor to act for you?"
A bitter laugh rose in my throat. The one acting all this time wasn't me—it was him.
The man who had lied, deceived, and destroyed everything I loved.
I wanted to tear off his mask, to scream until the truth echoed in his ears.
But all I managed was a cold, trembling whisper. "I didn't push her. And I won't give her my blood."
His patience finally snapped.
At his signal, one of the bodyguards stepped forward, holding a porcelain urn.
"Denise," Weston said coldly, "did you know? The child you lost—it was a boy."
My heart stopped. I turned sharply, eyes locking on the urn in his hands.
"You wouldn't want your son to have no peace even in death, would you?" His tone was chillingly calm as he slowly raised the urn higher.
My pupils constricted. Panic flooded my body.