Behind her stood a group of men dressed in black, each holding a box in their hands—eight in total.
Her lips curved into a faint smile as she stepped toward me, her eyes glinting with malice.
"Sis, where are you going?" she asked sweetly. "I heard you gave me three bags of blood. I really ought to thank you for that."
I had no intention of arguing with her. "Move," I said coldly.
Patricia's smile widened, her tone sharpening.
In the next instant, the men in black slammed the door shut behind her.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, taking a step back, my pulse quickening.
"Relax," she said with a laugh. "The truth is I never needed your blood—nor your child's umbilical cord blood."
Then, without warning, she lifted the three blood bags and poured them onto the floor, red liquid splattering everywhere.
Her taunting gaze locked with mine. But I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply stood there, silent.
However, my calmness seemed to drive her mad.
She moved closer until her breath brushed my ear.
"Do you know, Sis? When your baby was born, he was still breathing," she whispered, her voice low and poisonous. "He looked so much like you."
My body went rigid. I turned, my eyes sharp with disbelief.