Chapter 1
Three years of marriage. Three years of him making me smoothies every morning. Three years of mysterious bruises I couldn't explain. Three years of hospital visits he insisted were "routine." Today I found the medical files hidden in his safe — I was never his wife. I was his harvest.
The documents were cold, clinical. Bone marrow extraction records. Blood plasma donations I never authorized. Surgical consent forms with my forged signature. All dated across our entire marriage.
And every single sample was delivered to one person: Elise Montague. His college sweetheart. The woman he told me was dead.
I sat on the cold tile floor of his home office, papers scattered around me like leaves from a poisoned tree. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
It explained everything.
The smoothies every morning — always that strange metallic aftertaste he said was "iron supplements for your anemia." The monthly hospital visits where I'd wake up groggy with new needle marks. The exhaustion that never lifted no matter how much I slept.
My husband, Roman Hale, wasn't taking care of me.
He was draining me alive.
I heard his car pull into the driveway. The familiar sound of his keys in the door. My body went rigid.
"Camille? I'm home early." His voice floated through the house, warm and honeyed. The voice that used to make me feel safe. "Made reservations at your favorite restaurant tonight. You've been looking pale — thought we could celebrate. Your blood work came back great."
Of course it did. He needed me healthy enough to keep harvesting.
I shoved the papers back into the safe. My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely turn the lock. I wiped my face, stood up, and walked out to greet him.
Roman stood in the foyer, tall and devastating in his tailored suit. Those blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled at me. He was holding flowers — peonies, my favorite.
"There she is." He crossed the room and kissed my forehead. "You feel warm. Are you okay?"
Every cell in my body screamed to recoil from his touch.
"Just tired," I whispered.
"That's why dinner will be good for you. Fresh air, good food." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I already called Dr. Voss. He wants to see you Thursday for your next checkup."
Another extraction. That's what Thursday meant.
"Sounds good," I managed.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something shifted in his expression — just for a millisecond. Tenderness. Real tenderness. The kind he performed for me but never truly felt.
"Work thing," he said, pocketing the phone. "Go get dressed. I'll wait."
I turned toward the stairs, and the moment my back was to him, I let my face crumble.
Upstairs, I locked the bathroom door and pulled out my phone. I searched "Elise Montague" with shaking hands.
She wasn't dead. She had leukemia. Stage 4. She'd been in a private medical facility for three and a half years — six months before Roman married me.
He married me six months after she was diagnosed.
I scrolled through her medical facility's donor records that had been carelessly photographed in the files. My blood type: O negative. Universal donor. My HLA markers: a perfect match to hers.
Roman hadn't fallen in love with me at that coffee shop three and a half years ago. He'd selected me.
My phone buzzed. A text from Roman: *Wear the blue dress tonight. You look beautiful in it. I love you.*
I stared at those three words until they blurred. Then I typed back: *I love you too.*
I had to be smart about this. One wrong move, and the man sleeping beside me every night — the man who'd been surgically extracting pieces of me for three years — would know I'd found out.
And something told me Roman Hale didn't leave loose ends alive.
The documents were cold, clinical. Bone marrow extraction records. Blood plasma donations I never authorized. Surgical consent forms with my forged signature. All dated across our entire marriage.
And every single sample was delivered to one person: Elise Montague. His college sweetheart. The woman he told me was dead.
I sat on the cold tile floor of his home office, papers scattered around me like leaves from a poisoned tree. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
It explained everything.
The smoothies every morning — always that strange metallic aftertaste he said was "iron supplements for your anemia." The monthly hospital visits where I'd wake up groggy with new needle marks. The exhaustion that never lifted no matter how much I slept.
My husband, Roman Hale, wasn't taking care of me.
He was draining me alive.
I heard his car pull into the driveway. The familiar sound of his keys in the door. My body went rigid.
"Camille? I'm home early." His voice floated through the house, warm and honeyed. The voice that used to make me feel safe. "Made reservations at your favorite restaurant tonight. You've been looking pale — thought we could celebrate. Your blood work came back great."
Of course it did. He needed me healthy enough to keep harvesting.
I shoved the papers back into the safe. My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely turn the lock. I wiped my face, stood up, and walked out to greet him.
Roman stood in the foyer, tall and devastating in his tailored suit. Those blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled at me. He was holding flowers — peonies, my favorite.
"There she is." He crossed the room and kissed my forehead. "You feel warm. Are you okay?"
Every cell in my body screamed to recoil from his touch.
"Just tired," I whispered.
"That's why dinner will be good for you. Fresh air, good food." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I already called Dr. Voss. He wants to see you Thursday for your next checkup."
Another extraction. That's what Thursday meant.
"Sounds good," I managed.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something shifted in his expression — just for a millisecond. Tenderness. Real tenderness. The kind he performed for me but never truly felt.
"Work thing," he said, pocketing the phone. "Go get dressed. I'll wait."
I turned toward the stairs, and the moment my back was to him, I let my face crumble.
Upstairs, I locked the bathroom door and pulled out my phone. I searched "Elise Montague" with shaking hands.
She wasn't dead. She had leukemia. Stage 4. She'd been in a private medical facility for three and a half years — six months before Roman married me.
He married me six months after she was diagnosed.
I scrolled through her medical facility's donor records that had been carelessly photographed in the files. My blood type: O negative. Universal donor. My HLA markers: a perfect match to hers.
Roman hadn't fallen in love with me at that coffee shop three and a half years ago. He'd selected me.
My phone buzzed. A text from Roman: *Wear the blue dress tonight. You look beautiful in it. I love you.*
I stared at those three words until they blurred. Then I typed back: *I love you too.*
I had to be smart about this. One wrong move, and the man sleeping beside me every night — the man who'd been surgically extracting pieces of me for three years — would know I'd found out.
And something told me Roman Hale didn't leave loose ends alive.