Bride to Blood Bank - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading Bride to Blood Bank, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of Bride to Blood Bank.
The second they hauled Ian away, the hospital director scrambled to assemble a new surgical team. Surrounded by scrubs and sterile masks, I finally surrendered to exhaustion and blacked out.
I came to with the sharp sting of antiseptic in my nostrils. The steady beep of monitors harmonized with hushed whispers just beyond my door.
"Poor thing lost almost all her blood. They had to replace it—all of it—just to stabilize her."
"You didn't see it. I've been a nurse for a decade, and I've never seen anything so... inhumane."
"And her own husband—a doctor—did that to her? What kind of monster—" A sharp inhale. "He violated every oath we swear. It's unconscionable."
Their voices dissolved as my phone buzzed. The name on the screen sent a tremor through my fingers: my biological father.
"Zara, sweetheart." His voice was thick with regret. "After the divorce, I left the country to start over. I had no idea what you were enduring all these years. Let me make it right."
A notification flashed—$500 deposited into my account.
I stared at the screen, my ribs squeezing around something too jagged to name. The money didn't dull the ache. If anything, it sharpened the bitterness festering inside me, stoking my hatred for Ian and Jaime into something white-hot.
Turns out, Dad had seen the news. My hands shook as I pulled up Weibo. My name topped the trending list:
#OBGYN Director Performs Forced C-Section on 8-Month Pregnant Wife—Baby Dies
The comments were a wildfire:
"This is sickening. His own family."
"My friend works at that hospital. No anesthesia, no team—just him carving her open like a butcher. Staff are traumatized."
"Rumor is he did it for his mistress's leukemia. Took the cord blood like a thief."
"The hospital enabled this. They're complicit."
I felt... nothing. No grief, no vindication—just a chilling stillness. I scrolled to my lawyer's contact and dialed.
"Draft the divorce papers," I said. "And add fraud charges against Ian." I attached the damning audio of Ian and Jaime's confession.
Next, I booked the city's most exclusive postpartum recovery suite—somewhere Ian's toxicity couldn't reach me. Then I sued the hospital for negligence. Their legal team came crawling within hours, but I had one condition: They press charges against Ian too.
Sunlight pooled over my private hospital bed when my phone rang again. The caller ID twisted my lips into a smirk.
Ian.
Of course he'd wrangled bail. Without irrefutable proof our baby died during his butchery, his lawyers had weaseled him out.
The second I answered, his rage crackled through the speaker: "You're ruining me! You told the hospital to sue me, didn't you?" A teeth-grinding pause. "Remember, wife—if I burn, you burn with me."
I leaned back, savoring the frost in my voice: "Haven't you checked your mail? Our divorce trial starts Monday."
I came to with the sharp sting of antiseptic in my nostrils. The steady beep of monitors harmonized with hushed whispers just beyond my door.
"Poor thing lost almost all her blood. They had to replace it—all of it—just to stabilize her."
"You didn't see it. I've been a nurse for a decade, and I've never seen anything so... inhumane."
"And her own husband—a doctor—did that to her? What kind of monster—" A sharp inhale. "He violated every oath we swear. It's unconscionable."
Their voices dissolved as my phone buzzed. The name on the screen sent a tremor through my fingers: my biological father.
"Zara, sweetheart." His voice was thick with regret. "After the divorce, I left the country to start over. I had no idea what you were enduring all these years. Let me make it right."
A notification flashed—$500 deposited into my account.
I stared at the screen, my ribs squeezing around something too jagged to name. The money didn't dull the ache. If anything, it sharpened the bitterness festering inside me, stoking my hatred for Ian and Jaime into something white-hot.
Turns out, Dad had seen the news. My hands shook as I pulled up Weibo. My name topped the trending list:
#OBGYN Director Performs Forced C-Section on 8-Month Pregnant Wife—Baby Dies
The comments were a wildfire:
"This is sickening. His own family."
"My friend works at that hospital. No anesthesia, no team—just him carving her open like a butcher. Staff are traumatized."
"Rumor is he did it for his mistress's leukemia. Took the cord blood like a thief."
"The hospital enabled this. They're complicit."
I felt... nothing. No grief, no vindication—just a chilling stillness. I scrolled to my lawyer's contact and dialed.
"Draft the divorce papers," I said. "And add fraud charges against Ian." I attached the damning audio of Ian and Jaime's confession.
Next, I booked the city's most exclusive postpartum recovery suite—somewhere Ian's toxicity couldn't reach me. Then I sued the hospital for negligence. Their legal team came crawling within hours, but I had one condition: They press charges against Ian too.
Sunlight pooled over my private hospital bed when my phone rang again. The caller ID twisted my lips into a smirk.
Ian.
Of course he'd wrangled bail. Without irrefutable proof our baby died during his butchery, his lawyers had weaseled him out.
The second I answered, his rage crackled through the speaker: "You're ruining me! You told the hospital to sue me, didn't you?" A teeth-grinding pause. "Remember, wife—if I burn, you burn with me."
I leaned back, savoring the frost in my voice: "Haven't you checked your mail? Our divorce trial starts Monday."
End of Bride to Blood Bank Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Bride to Blood Bank book page.