My husband and I had a deal. DINK. Double income, no kids. We were religious about protection. We bought condoms in bulk. Yet, there I was, staring at two pink lines. He played the part of the comforting husband, telling me to embrace fate, that maybe this child was meant to be our little miracle. Against my better judgment, I believed him. I started from scratch, learning how to be a mother. Then came the third trimester. Anxiety stole my sleep. One night, while he was passed out, I found his secret social media account. He had posted a status at 3:00 AM: Can we just go back? Back to the shade of the trees on campus when we were eighteen. Before the sickness found us. Seconds later, a user with a Hello Kitty avatar commented with a single "hug" emoji. I was confused. I wasn't sick. Who was he talking about? I clicked on the girl's profile. Her featured video was titled "Three Toasts to Fate." In the video, a frail girl in a hospital gown held up a shot glass filled with glucose solution, celebrating a new beginning. The first toast, to my love. Here’s to him suppressing his physical disgust to sleep with that other woman. All because she has O-negative blood—the Rh-negative rarity. She is the only bed warm enough to incubate my "cure." The second toast, to the fetus. Because only that woman’s newborn stem cells are pure enough. So my love tracked her ovulation, sabotaged her birth control, and made sure she conceived. The third toast, to the due date. In three months, when that child lands, I will be reborn. As for the hollowed-out mother... who cares if she lives or dies. The comment section was full of people calling it "darkly romantic" and "edgy." But me? I froze. Because five minutes ago, my husband, the renowned hematologist Dr. Harrison Miller... Had just brought me a glass of warm milk and a document titled Consent for Directed Neonatal Stem Cell Donation. The person in his heart was never me. It was his high school sweetheart, sitting in the ICU, waiting for my baby’s life to save hers. And I was just the catalyst. The incubator for her cure. Harrison was dressed in his lounge clothes, his gold-rimmed glasses resting on his high nose bridge. The picture of sophistication. He even thoughtfully tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Babe, drink the milk and get some rest. It’s good for the baby." His voice was so tender it could melt. If I hadn't just seen that video, I would have thought I was the luckiest pregnant woman in the world. I looked down at the consent form. Paragraphs of dense legal jargon, but the core was simple. The cord blood and stem cells after birth would be donated, free of charge, to a patient named Samantha Reed. Samantha Reed. The name sounded familiar. The girl’s ID on the video was "gentle_wind_whispering." My hand trembled. Milk spilled onto the blankets. Harrison’s brow furrowed slightly, but he immediately grabbed a tissue to wipe my hand. His tone was a mix of reproach and pampering. "Why so careless? Are you burned?" I pulled my hand back, avoiding his touch. "Harrison, who is Samantha Reed? Why are we directing the donation to her?" Harrison paused. Only for a second. He quickly recovered, pushing the paper closer to me. "She's a very unfortunate young girl. A leukemia relapse. Critical condition. You have O-negative blood, and our baby almost certainly will, too. It’s a perfect match." He looked into my eyes, his gaze full of deep affection. "Babe, you have the biggest heart. Just think of it as building good karma for our child, okay?" Good karma. That line from the video—who cares if she lives or dies—stabbed into my brain like an ice pick. I fought down the urge to vomit and pointed at my phone screen. "And this video? Is this also building karma?" Harrison followed my gaze. On the screen, the woman in the hospital gown was facing the camera. On her wrist was a red string bracelet. Harrison had bought that bracelet two years ago on a medical trip to a monastery in Tibet. He said he lost it. Turns out, he "lost" it onto another woman's wrist. Harrison’s pupils shrank violently. But he was too calm. Calm like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver. He took my phone, closed the video, and even tucked the blanket around me. "Don't look at that garbage online. It’s all just clickbait for views. That bracelet is a generic design; you can buy them anywhere." He leaned down and kissed my forehead. His lips felt thin and cold. "Be a good girl. Sign the paper and go to sleep. That patient can't wait much longer." That last sentence carried a barely perceptible urgency. I stared at him. I had loved this face for seven years. From college sweethearts to walking down the aisle, I thought he was my salvation. I never imagined he was a grim reaper coming for my soul. I grabbed the pen and slashed a hard, deep line through the consent form. "I’m not signing it." Harrison’s expression instantly turned pitch black. Harrison didn't come back to our bedroom that night. He stayed in his study. The next morning, the dining table was covered with my favorite breakfast. Peeled shrimp, warm gourmet oatmeal, and an unopened bottle of prenatal vitamins. Harrison acted like nothing had happened, smiling as he dished up some oatmeal for me. "I had a bad attitude last night, babe. Don't be mad. We can talk about the donation later. Let's just eat." He pushed the bottle of vitamins toward me. "I had a colleague bring these back from Europe. Highest purity folic acid, great for fetal brain development. Make sure you take them on time." If this were before, I would have been incredibly touched. After all, he was a medical authority and a known workaholic. Taking the time to care about these little details was proof of his love. But now, I just felt sick. I swallowed the pill right in front of him. Then, maintaining the loving atmosphere, I sent him off to work. The second the front door clicked shut, I sprinted to the bathroom, stuck my fingers down my throat, and threw up my entire breakfast and the pill. Stomach acid burned my esophagus. Tears and snot smeared my face. I carefully collected the undigested pill fragments and put them into a Ziploc bag. That afternoon, I went to a private clinic. I sought out my best friend, who was a licensed pharmacist. The lab results came back fast. My friend was holding the report, her hand shaking. "Babe, this isn't folic acid. This is Filgrastim! And it's an incredibly high dose!" "This drug is meant for bone marrow donors. It forces the bone marrow to overproduce stem cells and dump them into the bloodstream. The side effects are brutal, especially for pregnant women. Long-term use causes kidney and liver failure, and even..." She didn't dare finish. I finished it for her: "Even maternal death, right?" My friend nodded, her eyes red. I smiled. A smile uglier than crying. So, the phrase who cares if she lives or dies wasn't a hyperbole. It was a literal medical plan. He really wanted my life. Just to save his Samantha. On my way home, Harrison called. He sounded out of breath, and the background noise was chaotic, like an emergency room. "Babe, where are you? The GPS shows you're out." He had installed a tracker on my phone. He used to say it was for my safety. Now I knew it was to monitor the condition of the "incubator." I watched the streetlights blur past the car window, my voice flat. "Just out buying some baby clothes. What’s wrong?" "Go home right now! There are too many germs out there, you'll catch a cold." He paused, his tone suddenly dropping into something sinister. "Don't wander off. I'll worry." After hanging up, I clicked on "gentle_wind_whispering's" profile. She had updated. This time, the photo was taken right outside the ICU. The caption read: [The other woman still hasn't signed the form, but he told me to leave everything to him and rest easy. It's okay. For our future, I can endure anything.] A comment asked: "What if she finds out?" She replied: [What if she does? The baby is in her belly, the baby's life is in her hands. But her life... is in his.] My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. Harrison Miller. If you want to play games. Let's play for keeps. I started acting completely normal. Taking my "medicine" on time, reporting my whereabouts. Harrison, as expected, lowered his guard. To ease his guilt, or maybe just to keep the incubator happy, he started coming home earlier, cooking for me, and massaging my swollen legs. His hands were dry and warm, hitting all the pressure points. Watching his focused profile, I suddenly asked, "Harrison, we should pick a name for the baby." His hands didn't stop. "Let's name him Reed." "What?" "Reed Miller. It sounds distinguished." I sneered in my heart. Reed. For Samantha Reed. How poetic. How utterly devoted. "I want to go to Mount Sinai for my next checkup. I heard there's a specialist there who's hard to get into," I probed cautiously. Harrison's hands suddenly tightened, digging painfully into my calf. "No need." He looked up, the gaze behind his lenses chilling. "I am the best doctor. My colleagues are the best team. I don't trust outside physicians." "But..." "Listen to me." He cut me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Your condition is unique. Only I understand your body perfectly. Don't go making a fuss out there. What if something goes wrong?" He made it sound so noble. In reality, he was terrified an outside doctor would look at my bloodwork, see my hormone levels spiking, and realize I was being slowly murdered. Over the next two weeks, Harrison escalated his control. He hired a "nanny." He said it was to take care of me, but she was a prison warden. My keycard was confiscated. My cell reception became mysteriously spotty. I was a pig in a pen. Just waiting for slaughter day. Until late one night, Harrison got a frantic call and rushed out. He forgot to lock the study. I slipped in and found a folder on his computer desktop named "S & H". Encrypted. I tried my birthday. Error. Our wedding anniversary. Error. Finally, I typed in the date Samantha mentioned in her video—the day they celebrated their "rebirth." October 18th. The folder clicked open. It was packed with photos and medical records. Pictures of Samantha bald from chemo, pictures of her leaning into Harrison's chest, laughing brilliantly. The timestamps spanned a decade. They were the college sweethearts. I was just the tragic accident who got in the way, the unlucky fool who happened to have the golden O-negative blood type. In a document titled Ovulation & Conception Protocol, I found something even more vile. Harrison had documented my menstrual cycles down to the hour. Which day he swapped the pills. Which day he poked holes in the condoms. Which days intercourse was strictly mandatory. Every single date corresponded to a night I had mistaken for passionate, spontaneous love. To him, those nights were just sickening, calculated breeding assignments. The last line of the document read: "Target Delivery: 32 weeks. Pre-term C-section to ensure maximum stem cell viability." 32 weeks. That was next week. He never intended for me to carry to term. A baby born at seven months would be fighting for its life. But he didn't care. He only needed the "cure." The front door clicked open. Harrison was back. I instantly killed the monitor and held my breath in the dark. Footsteps stopped right outside the study. The doorknob turned. I pressed myself behind the heavy curtains, shaking uncontrollably. Harrison walked in. He seemed exhausted. He collapsed into his desk chair and lit a cigarette. In the dim glow of the cherry, his face was shadowy and hollow. "Samantha, just hold on a little longer. It's almost over," he whispered to the empty room. "Next Tuesday. I'll schedule the surgery. You're going to be okay." My heart plummeted into an abyss. Next Tuesday. Three days from now. I waited until Harrison went to the master bedroom before I dared to creep back into my own room. I stared at the ceiling until dawn broke. The next morning, I intentionally threw myself down a flight of stairs. It made a horrific crash. The nanny screamed and frantically dialed Harrison's number. I curled on the hardwood floor, clutching my stomach, cold sweat pouring down my face. "It hurts... take me to the hospital, the nearest one, now!" Harrison roared through the speakerphone: "Do not take her anywhere else! Wait for me! I'm bringing an ambulance now!" The nanny was paralyzed with fear. I grabbed her arm, my nails biting into her skin. "I'm bleeding! Are you going to watch me die? If we both die, can you afford the prison time?!" That broke her. She dialed 911. Just as the paramedics arrived, Harrison’s SUV tore into the driveway. His eyes were bloodshot as he physically shoved a paramedic out of the way. "I am a doctor! She is my patient! And my wife! I am taking her to my hospital!" The EMTs looked shocked, but recognizing his badge and authority, they backed off. I was shoved into the passenger seat of Harrison's car. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. "若惜 (若惜), did you do that on purpose?" He figured it out. I was pale from genuine pain, but I forced a weak, pathetic smile. "Harrison, I was just so scared for the baby... why are you so angry?" Harrison didn't say a word. He drove me straight to his hospital and wheeled me right into a VIP suite. Not maternity. Hematology. In the bed next to mine lay Samantha Reed. It was the first time I saw her in person. She wasn't as arrogant as she was online. She was skin and bones, looking like a shattered porcelain doll. But the way she looked at me was pure, unfiltered greed. Like a starving wolf looking at a slab of meat. Harrison injected something into my IV. A sedative. Before the darkness pulled me under, I heard Samantha's frail voice. "Harrison... is that her? My medicine?" Harrison stroked her hair, his voice dripping with a tenderness I had never received. "Don't talk like that. She's our benefactor." "What benefactor? She's a walking blood bag. Once the baby is out, she's useless anyway, right?" "Samantha, stop it. The OR is prepped. You get ready too." "Harrison, do you really not feel bad? That is your child... and your wife." Silence. A long, suffocating silence. Then, Harrison's cold, dead voice. "Only the living have the right to claim a title. If she doesn't cooperate, she's nothing but medical waste." A tear slipped from the corner of my eye and soaked into the sterile pillow. So this is what it feels feels like when your heart truly dies.
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