Chapter 3

Aimee Ramirez POV:

I woke up to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the muted beeping of a machine. My head throbbed in a sick, rhythmic pulse, and my arm was encased in a tight bandage. A hospital.

From the adjacent room, I heard a woman' s frantic screams, punctuated by Kyle' s soothing murmurs. Karma. The sound twisted in my gut.

The door to my room burst open. Kyle stood there, his face pale and strained, his shirt spattered with what I realized with a jolt was my blood.

"She' s bleeding," he said, his voice tight with panic. He wasn't looking at me, but at the doctor who had followed him in. "Karma. She was in a car accident on her way here. She's pregnant. She's losing the baby."

He finally turned to me, his eyes cold and desperate. "They have the same blood type. Aimee, you have to give her blood."

My mind short-circuited. He was asking me, his injured wife, to give my blood to save the life of his mistress and their child.

The doctor stepped forward, his expression grave. "Mr. Lopez, your wife has a concussion and significant blood loss from her own injury. She's not in a condition to donate blood."

"I don't care!" Kyle snapped, his voice echoing in the small room. He strode to my bedside, his hands gripping the rail. "Aimee, this is my son. My heir. You have to do this."

He was looking at me, but I knew he didn't see me. He saw a solution. A bag of compatible blood.

"No," I whispered, the word scraping my raw throat.

Just then, his mother, Eleanor Lopez, swept into the room. A formidable woman who had always viewed me with a thinly veiled disdain. Her eyes, cold and sharp, landed on me.

"Aimee," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I know this is difficult. But think of that poor, innocent child. My grandchild. Surely, you wouldn't let him die?"

The emotional blackmail was suffocating. The image of a dying baby, an innocent life caught in this monstrous mess, flashed in my mind. My own past, the loss that had carved a permanent hole in my heart, rose up to choke me.

Against every instinct of self-preservation, I nodded. A single, jerky motion.

The transfusion left me weak and dizzy, a hollowed-out version of myself. Later, as I shakily tried to pour a glass of water, my hands trembling too much to hold the pitcher, I heard laughter from the next room. Bright, relieved laughter.

I pulled my IV stand with me, my bare feet cold on the linoleum floor, and crept to the door of Karma' s room, which was slightly ajar.

There they were. A perfect family portrait. Kyle was sitting on the edge of her bed, feeding her grapes. Eleanor was stroking Karma' s hair, cooing over her.

"You were so brave, my dear," Eleanor was saying. "Just rest. You need to be strong for my grandson."

"He's going to be a CEO, just like his daddy," Karma giggled, placing Kyle' s hand on her still-flat stomach. "I can feel it."

Kyle beamed, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face. "He will be. A Lopez heir. We' re finally going to have a real family."

His words, meant for her, were a dagger in my heart. Our family, the one we had built, was apparently not real.

"And her?" Karma asked, her voice turning petulant as she gestured vaguely in the direction of my room. "What about the blood bag next door? She' s not going to cause problems, is she?"

Kyle' s smile tightened. "Aimee knows her place. She' s a practical woman."

"Practical?" Eleanor scoffed. "She's a barren, cold-hearted career woman. Kyle, you need to finalize that divorce. My grandson cannot be born with that woman still attached to our family name."

"I'll handle it, Mother," Kyle said, his tone placating. "As soon as Karma and the baby are stable, I'll make sure Aimee signs whatever is necessary. I promise."

The room spun. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sob. A nurse found me slumped against the wall, my face ashen.

Kyle rushed out, his expression a mixture of annoyance and fleeting concern. "Aimee? What are you doing out of bed?"

Karma' s whiny voice followed him. "Ky, my head hurts! Come back!"

Instantly, his attention snapped back to her. "I'm coming, baby." He gave me one last, dismissive look before disappearing back into her room, leaving me alone in the cold, sterile hallway.

I waited all night for him to come back. To check on me. To say something, anything. He never did.

Around 3 a.m., he appeared in my doorway, a shadow against the dim light.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," he said, his voice low. "Karma' s just... emotional. The hormones."

I just stared at him, the man who had promised to love me in sickness and in health. The man who had held my hand five years ago in a hospital just like this one and sworn we would get through our own loss together.

Tears, hot and silent, began to stream down my face. I wasn't just crying for the marriage that was over. I was crying for the man who had never existed, the love that had been a figment of my imagination.

He reached out to touch my cheek, and I flinched away. The movement, however small, was a chasm opening between us.

His hand dropped. "Get some rest, Aimee," he murmured, his voice laced with a guilt that was too little, too late.

As he walked away, I felt something inside me finally, irrevocably, break. It was my heart, shattering into a million pieces on the cold hospital floor.