“President Deveraux, although both Mr. Milo Thatcher and Assistant Remington have RH-negative panda blood, Mr. Thatcher has a history of heart disease. Forcing blood from him might trigger acute shock. I recommend transferring him to the hospital first, then drawing blood for the anemic Assistant Remington—”
“No need to convince me,” Giselle cut in coldly.
“Your only concern is that Knox recovers. As for the rest, I’ll handle it.”
Hearing her footsteps draw near, I slowly shut my eyes.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice laced with a rare trace of gentleness.
“Just hang in there. It’ll be over soon.”
I turned my face away, unwilling to waste a single word on her.
By the time they had drawn 800 milliliters of blood, my lips had turned a sickly shade of purple.
Suddenly, from the master bedroom, Knox began to cough.
The moment she heard it, Giselle pressed down on the doctor’s hand just as he was about to remove the needle and demanded they double the amount.
The doctor, sweating bullets, warned her that any more might kill me.
She hesitated for two seconds, just two, before her voice came cold and firm. “Knox comes first.”
“But—”
I cut him off.
“Do it. Just let me leave once it’s done.”