My Daughter Was His Blood Pack

In the cramped confines of my studio apartment, I was rubbing my stiff knuckles, trying to soothe the chronic ache of a long days work, when my phone buzzed. A high-priority notification from the concierge app flashed across the screen.

A five-hundred-dollar booking. On-site massage therapy at a luxury estate in the Heights. I didnt hesitate; I swiped to accept it before anyone else could.

When I arrived at the addressa sprawling glass-and-steel mansion tucked behind a wall of manicured hedgesthe door was opened by a girl who looked like shed stepped off a yacht. Her skin was porcelain, glowing with the kind of health only money can buy. Yet, as the domestic staff hurried past her, they all addressed her as "Mrs. Stephen."

I couldn't help but make small talk as I set up my table. "You have beautiful skin," I remarked, keeping my voice professional yet warm. "You hardly look old enough to be married."

She beamed, a touch of youthful vanity in her eyes. "Oh, stop. Im already twenty-six..."

Twenty-six. She was a year older than me.

She ushered me inside with an eager energy, then pulled out her phone to make a call. Her tone was playful, like a child seeking a gold star. "Honey, I was so productive today! I found a premier therapist for only five hundred dollars. Aren't I the best little saver?"

She bit her lip, looking pleased with herself. "And she came right to the house! You have to come home and tell me how proud you are."

A warm, resonant male voice filtered through the speaker. "Youre the best, sweetheart. Especially in bed. Im heading back now to show you exactly how much I appreciate it."

My hands, which had been reaching for my massage oils, froze.

I knew that voice. I knew every inflection, every low vibration of it. It was the voice of the man I had spent my entire life savings to protect. The man I thought was rotting in a cell for a crime he committed to save me. My husband, Patrick Stephen.

It had been five years since the night he was supposedly hauled off to prison. Five years of me working three jobs, barely eating, trying to scrape together enough for a legal appeal that never seemed to come.

She smiled at me, looking a little bashful. "My husband... he has a bit of a mouth on him. Please don't mind him. Im pregnant, so its not like were actually doing anything strenuous."

She placed a hand on her stomach, her expression softening into something genuinely sweet. "Hes just talk. In reality, he treats me like Im made of glass. He doesn't let me lift a finger. He just wants me to eat and sleep, terrified Ill so much as trip over a rug."

My fingers felt like ice.

"Here, let me show you our maternity shoot," she said, pulling her phone back out.

I took the device, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked down.

In the photo, a man in a crisp white linen shirt had his arm draped possessively around her shoulders. He was looking at her with a faint, tender smile.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

It was him. Patrick.

The man who was supposed to be behind bars was standing in a sun-drenched garden, cradling another woman.

"Ma'am? Are you alright?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

I blinked, handing the phone back with trembling fingers. "Im fine. I just... I just remembered something I forgot to do."

She didn't push. She just laughed. "Your reviews online are incredible! Patricks had such a bad back lately. Would you mind staying a bit longer to work on him too?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Before I could find my voice, the heavy front door groaned open. A shadow fell across the room as a man stepped inside.

He looked at her, his eyes melting with an affection I hadn't seen in half a decade. "My back is fine, baby. You just focus on taking care of yourself."

She gave him a playful shove. "Im doing this for you! The therapist is already here waiting."

Patrick followed her gaze toward the bed. He saw me.

The smile on his face didn't just fade; it turned to stone.

"What are you doing here?"

He was across the room in three strides, his fingers clamping like iron around my wrist. He didn't wait for an answer. He began dragging me toward the door.

"Get out."

He shoved me into the hallway, then turned back to his wife, his voice instantly shifting back to that nauseatingly gentle tone. "Sweetheart, why are you letting just anyone into the house? This woman... shes not who she says she is. Youre pregnant. You have to be more careful."

The wife pouted, nodding obediently.

The door slammed in my face.

I stood there, paralyzed, until Patrick stepped out a side door a moment later to confront me.

"What do you want?" he hissed, his face contorted in a sneer. "Shes pregnant. She cant handle stress. If anything happens to that baby because of you, I will ruin you."

I opened my mouth to scream, to cry, to demand the five years of my life back, but a small figure suddenly darted from the shadows of the hallway behind me. It was my daughter, Daisy. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around Patricks leg.

"Daddy?" she whispered, her little face illuminated by a heartbreaking hope. "Daddy, I missed you! You look just like the man in Mommys wedding picture!"

Patrick looked down. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and pried her small fingers off his pants, one by one. He pushed her away as if she were a stray dog.

Daisy froze. Tears welled in her eyes, but she was too terrified to let them fall.

I scooped her into my arms, holding her so tight I could feel her heart racing. I looked Patrick in the eye.

"Do you have any idea what the last five years have been like?" my voice cracked. "I worked until I went into labor at seven months. I never had a day of rest. I waited for you! And youre out here... playing house?"

Patricks expression flickered for a fraction of a second, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, corporate mask.

"I never asked you to wait. What happened between us was a lifetime ago."

"A lifetime? You went to prison for me! Or so I thought."

"I was young and reckless," he said, dismissively. "My family had cut me off. That 'incident' was a detour. Ive moved on. Im back where I belong now, and I have a life that doesn't include you."

"The kidnapping five years ago..." I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "It was a setup, wasn't it? You didn't kill that man to protect me. It was all a play to disappear."

"Its in the past," he said. "The details are irrelevant."

He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and tossed it at my feet. "Theres enough on there to settle you and the girl. If its not enough, I can arrange more. I only want one thing." His voice turned deadly quiet. "Stay away from her. Shes fragile. Shes delicate. And that child shes carrying is the only thing that matters."

"And what about your daughter?" I choked out. "Does she just not have a father anymore?"

Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but the front door swung open again.

The wife stood there. She looked like she had been listening for a while. Her eyes were red. "Patrick? Who is this woman? Whose child is that?"

Patricks face went pale. "Honey, let me explain"

But she didn't stay to listen. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the marble floor.

"No!" Patrick screamed, rushing to her side. He gathered her up, his voice frantic. He turned back to me, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharpened hatred.

"Diana, if anything happens to her, I will make sure you never see the sun again!"

He rushed her to the hospital.

He didn't reappear until four in the morning, standing at the door of my dilapidated apartment.

"She went into preterm labor," he said, his eyes bloodshot, his voice raspy. "The baby is in critical condition."

He looked at me, but there was no apology in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating desperation. "I don't care why you showed up. I don't care about the past. Im sorry for whatever you think I owe you."

Suddenly, he reached down and scooped Daisy up.

Daisy startled, shrinking back, but he held her with a grip that left no room for escape. "Want to come live in a big house with Daddy, princess?"

Daisy blinked, her tiny hand reaching out to touch his face. "I... I have a daddy? For real?"

Patrick nodded. "For real. Im going to take care of you now."

Then he turned to me. "I will give her everything. The best schools, the best clothes, a life you could never dream of. But just her."

He looked at me with utter contempt. "You? Youre going to take a flight. Anywhere you want. Ill fund it. You start over, far away from here. You stay away from my wife."

I was stunned. "You want me to just... leave my daughter with you?"

Patricks gaze shifted. He couldn't look me in the eye.

"Our son is sick. Hes a preemie. His organs aren't fully developed. Hes going to need blood, maybe marrow. He has a very rare blood typethe same one you and Daisy have."

The air left my lungs.

"You want to take my daughter... to use her as a spare parts bin for her son?"

Patrick narrowed his eyes. "Its a precaution. To ensure the Stephen heir survives."

"A precaution?!"

I lunged forward, ripping Daisy from his arms and shielding her behind my back. "Over my dead body! She is my daughter. I raised her alone. I bled for her. You don't get to just take her!"

Patricks face darkened.

"My son is the future of the Stephen empire," he said, his voice like whetted stone. "He will not die. If Daisy stays with me, she has a future. If she stays with you, what does she have? Shell grow up to be a servant, just like you."

"She is a human being!" I screamed. "She isn't a tool!"

"Think about it, Diana," he stepped closer, his shadow engulfing me. "Are you keeping her for her sake, or for your own selfish pride? Youre drowning. Don't pull her down with you."

His words were like a dull knife, sawing at my heart. I looked at this manthis stranger wearing my husbands faceand felt a suffocating grief.

If it hadn't been for his "sacrifice" five years ago, I wouldn't be drowning.

I remembered being seven months pregnant, kidnapped by men who claimed Patrick owed them money. I remembered him fighting them off, the flash of a blade, the body hitting the floor.

I had cried for him. I had spent every penny on lawyers. I had worked on my feet until they bled just to send him "commissary" money that he apparently never needed.

It was all a lie.

"You are never touching her," I hissed.

Patricks phone rang. He checked the screen, his expression shifting to pure panic. "Fine. Were done talking."

He didn't argue. He simply lunged.

"Daisy, sweetheart, lets go get some ice cream, okay?" His voice turned sickeningly sweet.

Daisy was confused by the sudden change, looking between us with wide, tearful eyes. "Mommy?"

I tried to push him back, but he was stronger. He shoved me aside with a violent force, snatching Daisy up. She began to wail, kicking her legs, but he ignored her.

I scrambled to my feet, chasing him down the stairs, but I tripped, my knee slamming into the concrete. Pain flared, hot and blinding. I watched his taillights vanish into the night.

I didn't stop. I couldn't. I flagged a taxi, screaming at the driver to follow him to the hospital.

When I arrived at the Pediatric ICU, it was chaos.

Patrick was in the middle of a heated argument with his wife. She was in a hospital gown, pale and trembling, but her voice was sharp with venom.

"Patrick! I don't care if he dies! I won't have our son saved by that brat's blood! Get her out of here!"

"Sweetheart, be reasonable! Were running out of time!"

He was pleading with her, his hands on her waist.

"You lied to me!" she shrieked. "You said you were done with her! Now you bring her bastard into my sight?"

Patrick leaned in and kissed her forcefully, silencing her. "Trust me, baby. Its just a procedure. It means nothing."

She calmed down, sobbing into his chest.

And there, in the corner of the waiting room, was Daisy. She was huddled in a chair, looking smaller than Id ever seen her. When she saw me, her face lit up, but a security guard stepped in my way.

Patrick looked at me, his eyes cold. "The doctors are coming. Were doing the draw, and then Ill send her back to you. Its one pint of blood, Diana. Stop being dramatic."

I looked at my daughter, trembling in that oversized chair, and the dam finally broke.

"Five years, Patrick. I gave you everything. And now youre taking the literal blood out of our daughter's veins for a woman who hates her? Do you even have a soul?"

Patrick just checked his watch. "Im done discussing the past."

A team of nurses approached with a cart of equipment.

"Were ready, Mr. Stephen."

The security guards moved in. They pinned Daisy down. She began to screama high, thin sound that pierced through the sterile hallway.

I lost my mind. I broke past the first guard, lunging toward the nearest hospital bed. I grabbed the oxygen line connected to the wife's sons monitor.

"Let her go, Patrick! Let her go or I swear to God Ill end this right now!"

Patricks face went white. "Diana, youve lost it!"

The wife shrieked, throwing herself at me. "You crazy bitch! Youre trying to kill my baby!"

We collided, a blur of hair and fingernails. In the struggle, the IV needle in her arm tore loose, spraying blood across her white gown.

"Isabella!" Patrick roared.

He threw me off her with such force that I hit the wall. "Pin her down!" he barked at the guards.

They grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back until I screamed. I was forced to watch.

I watched the needle go into Daisys tiny arm. I watched the dark red blood begin to fill the bag.

Daisys screams grew weaker. Her face turned the color of ash.

"Patrick, please!" I sobbed, my voice breaking. "Stop it! Shes too small! Please!"

He didn't even look at me. "Keep going until we have enough," he told the doctor.

One bag. Then another.

Daisys eyes fluttered. Her head lolled to the side.

"Daisy! Daisy!"

I fought the restraints, but they tied me to a chair, the plastic zip-ties cutting into my wrists. I was a spectator to my own daughters slow fading.

Finally, the doctor stopped. He hurried into the ICU with the blood. Patrick followed him, his face full of frantic concern for his son.

He never once looked back at the unconscious girl in the corner.

I bit through the skin of my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I thrashed against the ties until I felt the bone in my wrist groan.

Daisy opened her eyes one last time. She crawled toward me, a slow, agonizing movement across the linoleum.

I pulled her into my lap, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe. She curled into my chest, her body feeling impossibly light.

"Mommy..." she whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound. "Don't cry..."

Her head fell against my shoulder. The small, frantic heartbeat I had felt through her ribs simply... stopped.

"Daisy!"

A scream tore from my throat, a sound so primal it felt like it was shredding my vocal cords.

A cold, absolute rage settled over me. I threw my weight against the side table, knocking a glass vase to the floor. It shattered into a thousand diamonds. I reached down, ignoring the glass slicing my palms, and used a shard to saw through the zip-ties.

I gathered her cold body into my arms. She was still warm, but the spark was gone.

I didn't cry anymore. My eyes were dry and burning.

Patrick. Isabella. You owe me a life. And I am going to collect.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and dialed the tip line for the citys largest news outlet.

"I have a story for you," I said, my voice eerily calm. "The heir to the Stephen fortune, Patrick Stephen, is a bigamist and a murderer. He just killed his own daughter to save his mistresss son. I have the evidence. And Im going to burn his world down."