Elijah’s POV
The wine in my glass had gone warm.
I had been staring at it for the past twenty minutes, watching the deep red liquid swirl against the crystal, watching the candlelight reflect off the surface like tiny flames dancing in a sea of blood.
Her blood.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image wouldn’t leave.
Hannah’s face when she signed those papers.
Pale.
Resigned.
Broken in a way I had never seen before.
She had looked at me.
Actually looked at me.
Searched my face for something, anything, that would make this moment less devastating.
I had given her nothing.
Not a word.
Not a glance.
Not even a nod of acknowledgment.
I had stared at the chandelier above her head like she didn’t exist.
Because if I had looked at her, if I had let myself see the pain in her eyes, I would have shattered.
And I couldn’t shatter.
Not now.
Not when Isabella was waiting.
Not when the deal was done and the papers were signed and she was finally free of me.
Free.
I almost laughed at the word.
Was she free?
Was I?
Three years of marriage, and I had never felt more trapped than I did in this moment, sitting at this table while the lawyer packed up the papers and Victoria poured herself another glass of wine.
“Finally,” my mother said, setting down her glass with a satisfied clink.
“That woman is gone.
I never understood why you married her in the first place.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because the truth was too ugly, too shameful, too devastating to admit out loud.
I married Hannah because I had no choice.
Isabella was dying.
The doctors said she had months, maybe weeks.
Her body was shutting down, and the only thing that could save her was a rare blood type that only a handful of people in the country possessed.
Hannah was one of them.
I had found her working at a coffee shop downtown.
Twenty-two years old, fresh out of college, with a smile that could light up a room and eyes that held galaxies.
She was beautiful.
Innocent.
Unspoiled by the world I lived in.
I had approached her like a predator stalking prey.
I had charmed her.
Wooed her.
Made her fall in love with me.
And then I had asked her to marry me.
Not because I loved her.
Not because I wanted a life with her.
But because I needed her blood to keep Isabella alive a little longer.
She had said yes.
Of course she said yes.
She was young and naive and she thought I actually cared about her.
I had given her the whole performance.
The flowers.
The whispered promises.
The diamond ring that I had bought with no intention of it ever meaning anything.
It had worked.
She had signed the marriage certificate, and then she had signed the donation forms, and then she had given blood every single month until she collapsed.
I had watched her collapse.
I had been standing right there in the hospital room, watching her face go white and her eyes roll back in her head.
The nurses had rushed to her side.
They had called her name.
They had tried to revive her.
And I had walked out.
I had walked out because Isabella needed me.
Isabella was the one who mattered.
Isabella was the one I had loved since I was sixteen years old, the one I had promised to marry before Victoria decided she wasn’t good enough for the Martinez family name.
I had spent ten years fighting my mother for permission to marry Isabella.
Ten years of arguing and pleading and begging.
And then Isabella got sick, and my mother finally relented.
She would allow the marriage if Isabella survived.
But she hadn’t survived.
Not on her own.
She needed help.
She needed blood.
She needed a donor.
She needed Hannah.
“Is she gone?”
Isabella’s voice drifted down from the staircase.
I looked up and saw her standing at the top, wearing a silk robe and looking like a ghost.
She was pale.
Thin.
Fragile in a way that made my chest ache.
“Darling, you should be resting.” Victoria stood up and hurried toward the stairs.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I wanted to see.” Isabella came down the stairs slowly, carefully, one hand gripping the banister.
“I wanted to make sure she was gone.”
“She’s gone,” I said.
My voice came out flat.
Hollow.
“The papers are signed.
It’s done.”
Isabella crossed the room toward me.
She moved like a wounded bird, fragile and trembling, and I hated myself for noticing the difference between her and Hannah.
Hannah had been strong.
Even when she was exhausted, even when she had given too much blood, she had stood tall.
She had held her head up.
Isabella collapsed against me.
I caught her, because that was what I did.
I caught her when she fell.
I held her up when she couldn’t stand on her own.
I gave her everything.
But I had never caught Hannah.
I had never held her up.
I had never given her anything except a ring and a cold, empty marriage.
“You did the right thing,” Isabella whispered against my chest.
“She never belonged here.
She was always an outsider.”
I didn’t respond.
I couldn’t.
Because some part of me knew that wasn’t true.
Hannah had belonged here more than Isabella ever did.
She had tried so hard to fit in.
She had learned our customs.
Our manners.
The way we spoke and dressed and acted.
She had tried so hard, and I had watched her fail.
I had watched her at every family dinner, sitting in the corner while Isabella sat beside me.
I had watched Victoria snub her and talk over her and treat her like a servant.
I had watched the staff whisper about her behind her back.
And I had never once defended her.
Never once stood up for her.
Never once told my mother to stop treating my wife like garbage.
Because she wasn’t my wife.
Not really.
She was a donor.
A blood bag.
A transaction.
“This is for the best,” Victoria said, returning to the table.
“You can finally marry Isabella properly.
No more secrets.
No more hiding.”
Isabella smiled against my chest.
“We can have a real wedding now.
A big one.
With flowers and a cake and all the things I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Isabella.” My voice came out harsher than I intended.
“You need to rest.
The doctor said-”
“I know what the doctor said.” Her smile faded.
“But I’m better now.
Thanks to her.
Thanks to all that blood she gave me.”
Thanks to all the blood I had stolen from a woman who trusted me.
I disentangled myself from Isabella and stood up.
My chair scraped against the marble floor.
Victoria frowned.
Isabella looked confused.
“Where are you going?” my mother demanded.
“I need some air.”
I walked out before either of them could argue.
I walked through the foyer, past the grand staircase, past the portraits of my ancestors watching me with cold, judgmental eyes.
I walked to the front door and pulled it open.
The cold hit me like a slap.
I welcomed it.
I needed something to wake me up, to snap me out of this fog of guilt and shame that had been choking me for three years.
I looked down the driveway.
Hannah was gone.
I had watched her walk away through the window, watched her disappear into the darkness with nothing but a canvas tote bag and the clothes on her back.
She had looked so small.
So fragile.
So utterly alone.
I had wanted to run after her.
I had wanted to grab her and hold her and tell her that none of this was her fault.
But I couldn’t.
I had a role to play.
A mask to wear.
A marriage to end.
The wind whipped through my hair.
I stood on the front steps of my mansion, the mansion I had grown up in, the mansion I had never wanted but had been forced to inherit.
I stood there and stared at the gates where Hannah had disappeared, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Regret.
I had used her.
Used her like a tool, like a resource, like something to be consumed and discarded.
I had taken her blood and her youth and her love, and I had given her nothing in return.
She had loved me.
I knew that.
I had seen it in her eyes every time she looked at me.
Even when I was cold.
Even when I ignored her.
Even when I walked past her in the hallway like she didn’t exist.
She had loved me, and I had destroyed her.
“Elijah?”
I turned.
Maria, the maid, was standing in the doorway.
Her eyes were red.
She had been crying.
“Maria.” I kept my voice flat.
Professional.
“What is it?”
“She’s gone,” Maria said.
“Mrs.
Martinez.
She’s gone.”
“I know.”
“Do you know where she went?”
No.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
That was what I told myself.
I didn’t care where Hannah went or what happened to her.
She was nothing to me.
A transaction.
A tool.
A means to an end.
But I was lying.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“And it doesn’t matter.”
Maria looked at me like she wanted to say something else.
Something that would change everything.
But she just nodded and went back inside.
I stood alone in the darkness.
The wind howled.
The gates loomed in the distance.
And somewhere out there, Hannah was alone too.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would have been like if I had chosen differently.
If I had married Hannah for love.
If I had defended her.
If I had let myself fall for her the way she had fallen for me.
But I couldn’t do that.
I had made my choice.
Isabella was my priority.
Isabella was the one I had always loved.
Isabella was the reason I had married Hannah in the first place.
I turned and walked back inside.
Victoria and Isabella were waiting for me.
They were smiling, planning the wedding, planning their future.
I forced myself to smile too.
Forced myself to sit down and play the role I had been playing for ten years.
But inside, I was empty.
And I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold, that I would never feel whole again.