My Blood Fed His First Love

On our third wedding anniversary, Julian rear-ended Serena's car—his first love.

Rainy night, crash site, I was bleeding internally.

He pressed on my wound, but not to stop the bleeding. Instead, he roared at the paramedics: "Draw blood from my wife immediately! She and Serena both have Rh-null blood! Save Serena first!"

The paramedic froze: "Sir, this patient is also hemorrhaging. This violates medical protocol..."

"I'm her husband!" Julian practically screamed. "I'll take full responsibility! Do it now!"

I was in hemorrhagic shock, yet he wanted to drain my blood to save another woman.

"Julian..." I tried to plead.

He didn't even glance at me, only knelt beside that woman named Serena, cradling her like a priceless treasure.

The blood collection needle pierced my vein.

My blood, drop by drop, flowed into her body.

Before I lost consciousness, I heard Julian say: "Don't be afraid, Serena, I'm right here."

Three days.

I lingered at hell's gate for three days before that damned survival instinct dragged me back.

When I woke, the smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils.

Behind the curtain, Julian and a doctor were arguing in hushed tones.

"Are you insane, Julian? She's your wife! She developed severe anemia after surgery, and you had people draw more blood while she was unconscious? She could die!"

"Shut up, Evans." Julian's tone was resolute. "Since you took my money, do your job and keep your mouth shut. Serena's new round of rejection reactions requires golden blood to sustain her. You know how rare Rh-null is. There are fewer than fifty people in the world with this blood type."

"So you're treating your wife as an inexhaustible blood bank?! I can't help you anymore. She'll die if this continues."

Julian's voice was emotionless, even carrying a hint of self-righteous arrogance.

"Clara has lived a life of luxury these five years—something most people couldn't dream of in several lifetimes. This is an equal exchange. Serena is my muse. Her face, her body—they're works of art. What does it matter to sacrifice a mediocre housewife to maintain that perfection?"

Mediocre housewife.

I lay in bed, my eyes so dry they hurt.

Five years of memories flickered through my mind like an absurd slideshow.

"Clara, you're too weak. This is my specially formulated nutrition injection."—That was to make me produce blood.

"Darling, this is a routine checkup. We need to prepare for our future baby."—That was to monitor my blood quality.

"Don't go to work. I can't bear to see you suffer in that dirty hospital."—That was to prevent me from contacting medical colleagues and discovering the abnormalities in my body.

I see now.

When the curtain was pulled back with a swoosh, I pretended to just wake up.

"Clara! Thank God, you're finally awake. I was so worried about you."

Julian rushed over and grabbed my hand, still playing the devoted husband.

In the past, I would have been moved to tears and thrown myself into his arms.

But now, looking at him was like looking at a corpse covered in flies. It made me sick.

I knew he was acting.

Perhaps this was his greatest surgery ever—dissecting my trust, suturing lies.

"I want water..."

I spoke weakly, subtly pulling my hand back under the covers, avoiding his touch.

"What happened to me? Everything hurts."

Julian's eyes flickered.

He poured a glass of water, inserted a straw, and brought it to my lips, his voice dripping with tenderness. "You lost a lot of blood. This is a normal post-operative reaction. I've arranged the best team to take care of you."

"What about the person in the other car?" I stared into his eyes, deliberately asking.

"Just a stranger, don't worry about it." He smiled. "Don't overthink it. When you feel a bit better, we'll go to Zurich next week. The sanatorium there faces the Alps—it's the place you've always wanted to visit. Just the two of us, okay?"

Zurich.

That was the promise he made when he proposed.

Five years overdue.

"Okay." I lowered my eyelids, long lashes hiding the coldness churning beneath. "Whatever you arrange, I'll go along with it."

Julian was obviously relieved.

The next day at noon, that so-called "Zurich trip" fell through, as expected.

Julian called, his voice full of regret: "Clara, I'm truly sorry. The academy has an emergency conference on stem cell transplantation. I must attend. Zurich might have to be postponed."

"It's fine, work comes first," I said into the phone.

After hanging up, I found Serena's social media.

Five minutes ago—exactly when Julian claimed to be in an "emergency academic conference"—Serena had posted an update.

The photo showed a foot wearing red high heels.

And the hand putting on that shoe wore a wedding ring I knew all too well.

The caption was simple, yet every word pierced my heart:

"Reborn. Thanks to my personal doctor, who not only gave me a second life but also gave me shoes to run toward the future. #Love #NewLife"

That glaring shade of red looked exactly like what had drained from my body that rainy night.

What she wore on her feet wasn't a shoe.

It was my blood and flesh.

Looking at the photo, the last trace of warmth in my heart died completely.

I opened my contacts and stopped at a number labeled "Mentor."

Five years ago, when I decided to get married and drop out, he had pointed at my nose and cursed.

He said it was medicine's greatest loss.

He said I'd regret it so much I'd roll in shit.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed dial.

"Professor, this is Clara. That project you had on 'Rh-null Blood Extreme Tolerance and Rejection Reactions'—you still haven't found a suitable experimental subject, have you?"

"This time, I'm not just your researcher. I'm also your best—your only—living experimental sample. My blood, my body, my data—all yours. Just help me get out of here."

My voice grew more choked.

Five years.

For five years, I thought I'd found a home, that I could be a wife who was truly loved.

But reality told me it was all fake.

Now that the dream has shattered, I need to reclaim my life.

"Professor..." My tears finally fell. "I want to go back to work."

Just then, footsteps sounded at the door.

Julian was back.

"Clara? Who are you talking to on the phone?"