Bride to Blood Bank - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
You are reading Bride to Blood Bank, Chapter 9: Chapter 9. Read more chapters of Bride to Blood Bank.
Jaime's face twisted with rage, but instead of coming for me, he whirled on Ian, his gaze icy and lethal. "This is on you. You insisted on doing the surgery alone—no assistants, no oversight. You screwed up, and now my baby's dead."
Before anyone could react, Jaime lunged, swinging a wild fist at Ian's jaw. Ian wasn't the type to take a hit lying down—he retaliated with a brutal kick to Jaime's gut.
"If you hadn't pressured Zara into that emergency C-section, none of this would've happened!" Jaime snarled, fists flying. "Trish would still be alive. This is your fault!"
Ian ducked, snatched a vase off the side table, and swung it at Jaime's head. "If Zara hadn't caught you and Trish together, I wouldn't have had to marry her to cover your mess! You ruined everything!"
The fight escalated into a vicious brawl—no holding back, no mercy. Fists cracked against bone, blood splattered the floor, and neither man showed any sign of backing down. Security hovered uselessly, unsure whether to step in.
Meanwhile, I saw my chance. A few taps on my phone, and I'd launched a live stream, dumping a hefty boost into its reach. Within minutes, it was trending, viewers pouring in by the thousands.
The comments exploded:
"Wait—Ian trapped Zara into marriage? What a piece of work."
"Serves him right. He destroyed one woman for his 'true love,' and now she's dead. Karma's a bitch."
"They're not even fighting out of grief—just because their lies got exposed? Zara deserves better than these two snakes."
I watched the chaos unfold, then locked eyes with Jaime. "Don't forget, Jaime—Ian's the one who held the scalpel. His hands killed your child. Honestly, you're both as bad as each other. But if you want someone to blame… we're on the same side."
Jaime froze—then it hit him like a truck. His bloodshot eyes burned with fresh fury. Without hesitation, he snatched a jagged shard from the shattered vase.
"Ian," he growled, voice shaking with rage, "you killed my child. You killed Trish. Now you're gonna pay."
Before Ian could react, Jaime drove the glass straight through his palm.
A scream ripped through the room. Ian staggered back, clutching his ruined hand, face white with horror. "My hand!" he shrieked. "Help me! My hand!"
I knew exactly why he was panicking. Even blacklisted, he could've scraped by in some back-alley clinic. But now? With his hand destroyed, his surgical career was over.
Finally, security snapped into action. Cops stormed in, dragging both men apart. Jaime was arrested for assault. Ian avoided jail but walked away with a useless hand—his days as a surgeon, finished.
Days later, as I packed to leave the hospital, Ian cornered me. The once-polished Dr. Seymour was a shell of himself—sunken eyes, unshaven, broken.
"I'll sign the divorce papers," he muttered. "But only if you get the hospital to drop the lawsuit."
Pathetic. Even now, all he cared about was salvaging some pathetic half-life. Without his hands or reputation, he had nothing. But if the lawsuit vanished, he could still slink into some low-rent clinic. Not a future—just survival.
I smiled coldly. "Fine. Sign, and I'll handle it."
I handed him the papers I'd prepared months ago. Without a second thought, Ian grabbed a pen and scrawled his name—his last act of surrender.
Before anyone could react, Jaime lunged, swinging a wild fist at Ian's jaw. Ian wasn't the type to take a hit lying down—he retaliated with a brutal kick to Jaime's gut.
"If you hadn't pressured Zara into that emergency C-section, none of this would've happened!" Jaime snarled, fists flying. "Trish would still be alive. This is your fault!"
Ian ducked, snatched a vase off the side table, and swung it at Jaime's head. "If Zara hadn't caught you and Trish together, I wouldn't have had to marry her to cover your mess! You ruined everything!"
The fight escalated into a vicious brawl—no holding back, no mercy. Fists cracked against bone, blood splattered the floor, and neither man showed any sign of backing down. Security hovered uselessly, unsure whether to step in.
Meanwhile, I saw my chance. A few taps on my phone, and I'd launched a live stream, dumping a hefty boost into its reach. Within minutes, it was trending, viewers pouring in by the thousands.
The comments exploded:
"Wait—Ian trapped Zara into marriage? What a piece of work."
"Serves him right. He destroyed one woman for his 'true love,' and now she's dead. Karma's a bitch."
"They're not even fighting out of grief—just because their lies got exposed? Zara deserves better than these two snakes."
I watched the chaos unfold, then locked eyes with Jaime. "Don't forget, Jaime—Ian's the one who held the scalpel. His hands killed your child. Honestly, you're both as bad as each other. But if you want someone to blame… we're on the same side."
Jaime froze—then it hit him like a truck. His bloodshot eyes burned with fresh fury. Without hesitation, he snatched a jagged shard from the shattered vase.
"Ian," he growled, voice shaking with rage, "you killed my child. You killed Trish. Now you're gonna pay."
Before Ian could react, Jaime drove the glass straight through his palm.
A scream ripped through the room. Ian staggered back, clutching his ruined hand, face white with horror. "My hand!" he shrieked. "Help me! My hand!"
I knew exactly why he was panicking. Even blacklisted, he could've scraped by in some back-alley clinic. But now? With his hand destroyed, his surgical career was over.
Finally, security snapped into action. Cops stormed in, dragging both men apart. Jaime was arrested for assault. Ian avoided jail but walked away with a useless hand—his days as a surgeon, finished.
Days later, as I packed to leave the hospital, Ian cornered me. The once-polished Dr. Seymour was a shell of himself—sunken eyes, unshaven, broken.
"I'll sign the divorce papers," he muttered. "But only if you get the hospital to drop the lawsuit."
Pathetic. Even now, all he cared about was salvaging some pathetic half-life. Without his hands or reputation, he had nothing. But if the lawsuit vanished, he could still slink into some low-rent clinic. Not a future—just survival.
I smiled coldly. "Fine. Sign, and I'll handle it."
I handed him the papers I'd prepared months ago. Without a second thought, Ian grabbed a pen and scrawled his name—his last act of surrender.
End of Bride to Blood Bank Chapter 9. Continue reading Chapter 10 or return to Bride to Blood Bank book page.