No More Blood For My Ex

When Clyde and I finally tore our marriage apart, we didn't go quietly. We spent the next three years at war. I snatched a multi-billion-dollar acquisition right out from under him; he retaliated by poaching my chief of staff of ten years. We even spent two agonizing years in federal court, trading blows over the trademark of our parent company. Before our ninth court-ordered mediation, the courthouse hallway was a fortress of camera lenses and flashing lights. The media was suffocating, eager to capture the final showdown. Everyone was placing bets on who would walk away with the lion's share of our conglomerate's stock. But when the session began, my chair remained empty. Because the night before, Clyde had shown up at my apartment. He hadn’t knocked; he had simply waited in the dim hallway, sliding a blank check across my kitchen island the moment I let him in. "Elaine, let's call this a draw," he said, his voice carrying that familiar, exhausting weight. "Write down your number. What is it going to take for you to walk away?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "You know how sensitive Serena is. She gets anxious, and she doesn't want to see your name on the board of directors anymore." Before the bitter laugh could leave my throat, he raised a single finger, silencing me as his phone vibrated in his palm. He answered it, his entire posture softening instantly. "Hey, baby. I’m just in a meeting. I’ll bring you those artisanal croissants from the bakery downtown on my way back... Yeah. Good girl." The sheer tenderness bleeding from a man who was normally as cold as granite was a knife. It cleanly severed the last taut string holding my heart together for the past three years. I picked up the pen, slid the check back to him, and looked him dead in the eye. "Deal." … The next morning, the board meeting's outcome exploded across financial news outlets. With my deliberate absence, Clyde had easily secured the remaining voting shares, cementing his absolute control over the firm. On the screen, reporters swarmed him as he exited the lobby. "Mr. West, is it true that your previous marriage ended because Serena was the other woman?" Clyde immediately shielded Serena behind his broad shoulders, his brow furrowing into a dark line. "That is entirely false. Which outlet are you with? Expect a cease-and-desist by noon." I turned off the television. When Clyde loved, he did so with a terrifying, protective intensity. Years ago, to make me smile, he had bought a skyscraper in the heart of the city and named it the Elaine Plaza. He had gifted me custom-made, diamond-encrusted gowns from Paris and pink diamond rings that could fund a small country. He had given me every visible marker of devotion a woman could ask for. Except his heart. He had never once gone out of his way to buy me pastries from downtown. He had never shielded me when things got ugly. Instead, when the board turned on me years ago, he had merely patted my shoulder and said, "Elaine, you’re the strongest woman I know. You can handle this." He had married me back then to protect Serena’s reputation, and now, he was willing to bankrupt a news agency to keep her name clean. He would compromise his own morals, he would compromise me, but he would never, ever compromise Serena. In a way, the reporter's question really was a lie. Serena wasn't a mistress. If we were measuring by who held his heart first, I was the actual intruder. My stomach flared with a familiar, burning ache. I went to the kitchen, intending to brew a cup of black coffee just to keep myself upright, but when I pressed my thumb against the biometric lock of my townhouse, the screen flashed red: "Access Denied." I called Clyde. He picked up immediately, his tone entirely casual. "Oh, Serena’s lock broke, and she said she was used to the model we had at the townhouse. I had my security team dismantle yours and install it at her place. Just find a hotel for tonight. Send the bill to my assistant." I stared at the brick wall of my entryway, my mouth open, but no sound came out. What was I supposed to say? "This is the house you gave me when we married? I am the legal owner of this property?" It didn't matter. I was never the true mistress of his life. I hung up without a word and called a local locksmith. When the lock was finally drilled open, even the locksmith hesitated at the threshold, casting a pitying glance in my direction. The townhouse was a disaster. Men’s and women’s clothes were strewn everywhere. Silk shirts on the floor, lace lingerie draped over the sofa, the dining table, even hanging from the window sill. It was a visual diary of a passionate, reckless weekend. My face remained entirely blank. I gathered every piece of clothing, every forgotten accessory, piled them into a heap on the marble hearth, and flicked my lighter. The fire caught instantly, roaring to life. Just as the smoke began to billow toward the ceiling, the front door swung open. Serena walked in, laughing, her hand tucked into Clyde’s arm. The laughter died instantly. Seeing the ashes and the burning silk, her eyes welled with tears. "Elaine! You burned everything Clyde bought for me?!" I held my mug of black coffee, taking a slow sip. "Serena, you really didn't inherit any of my traits." "What is that supposed to mean?" she spat. "You've had so much of my blood pumped into your veins over the years, yet you didn't inherit a single drop of my grace. Three years later, and you’re still just a shrill, petulant little thief." Serena lunged forward as if to strike me, but Clyde caught her, pulling her tightly against his chest, murmuring softly, "Sweetheart, don't. Calm down. It's bad for your heart." He glared at me, but his voice remained gentle to her. "Let it burn. I'll buy you better, more expensive things." He looked at me then, a strange hesitation flickering in his dark eyes. He stepped forward and placed a sleek silver thermos on the kitchen island. "Your stomach is weak," he said quietly. "Stop drinking so much black coffee. Take care of yourself." The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving behind only the faint, herbal aroma of the tea inside the thermos. During our single year of marriage, no matter how chaotic his schedule was, Clyde had personally brewed that blood-nourishing tea for me every single day. When his associates asked about it, he simply dismissed it as a habit. Habit is a terrifying thing. It tricks you into believing there is love where there is only duty. It makes you believe things will never change. Once, that tea had tasted like heaven. Now, as I poured it down the sink, it only smelled of rot. My phone vibrated violently on the counter. It was Jude, my longest and most irritating business rival. "Elaine, I managed to get an exclusive pass to the restructuring summit next week. You in?" When I met him at a quiet lounge later that evening, Jude took one look at my pale face and let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Clyde is a real piece of work, isn't he? Have you seen the internet today? His PR team is working overtime. The narrative is that you ran away from the mediation because you got your payout, and now you’re trying to smear an innocent girl like Serena." Jude slid his tablet across the table. The financial commentators on Twitter were having a field day, their words dripping with condescension. "Who actually believed Elaine was some kind of financial prodigy?" "The contracts Clyde couldn't secure, she miraculously closed? Come on. We all know how women secure deals in those closed-door meetings." During our marriage, Clyde had always been the face of the company. I had willfully dimmed my own light to protect his ego, believing that a wife should build her husband up. The result was a public that viewed me as nothing more than a high-society parasite. "Women just have an easier time in the boardroom. Open your legs, and the contract signs itself." The comments were vile. They dragged me back to a place I had spent a decade trying to forget. I remembered high school, the whispers in the hallways after I transferred in and took the top rank in our class. "How could the scholarship girl get perfect scores? She must be sleeping with the teachers. I heard she's easy." It was the feeling of being stripped bare under a harsh spotlight while a crowd laughed at your shame. The more you defend yourself, the more they enjoy the show. Back then, Clyde had been the one to stand in front of me. He was the golden boy who pulled me out of that mud. He had made my teenage years bearable and my twenties beautiful. To this day, I still couldn't tell if what I felt for him was deep, lingering gratitude, or a love that had simply gone bad. Jude, noticing the tightness in my jaw, leaned forward. "Want me to file a defamation suit on your behalf? Just call me 'big brother,' and I'll handle it." I surprised him by shaking my head. "It's not entirely false. I did take a blank check from him." Jude muttered a curse under his breath. "Fine. Let's talk business." He insisted on taking me to a high-profile networking gala that night, claiming I needed to get back into the circle. But the moment we walked through the double doors, my eyes landed on Clyde and Serena, standing at the center of a sycophantic crowd. People were practically lining up to flatter them. "Miss Serena, you are so blessed!" "I heard Mr. West once offered a ten-million-dollar bounty just to find a backup donor with your exact rare blood type. Talk about true love." A brave executive stepped forward to offer a toast to Serena, but Clyde intercepted the glass. Clyde had a severe, life-threatening alcohol allergy—a fact known to everyone in our social circle. Yet, to spare Serena the social awkwardness, he drank the cognac without blinking. Within seconds, a faint, angry red rash began to creep up his neck. I watched from across the room as he slipped an antihistamine into his mouth, risking his life for a woman’s comfort. It was incredibly ironic. Three and a half years ago, my car had spun off a wet mountain road. I had been trapped in the crushed metal, bleeding out, absolutely terrified that I was going to die alone in the dark. While waiting for the sirens, I had called Clyde. It rang nine times before he answered. I had just wanted to hear his voice one last time. But do you know what he said when he finally picked up? "Are you bleeding? How many milliliters?" I had been too young, too desperate, to understand the cold calculations behind those words. For years, I had excused his absences on my birthdays and our anniversaries, telling myself he was just building an empire for us. But when I finally woke up in that sterile hospital bed after the crash, I discovered the truth: while I was trapped in that wreck, Clyde had been hosting a birthday party for Serena’s goldendoodle. Perhaps Serena had been right when she cornered me at the hospital: "Clyde loves me, Elaine. Even your marriage was just a transaction to keep me alive." I had pretended not to believe her. But watching him now, his face flushed red from the alcohol he shouldn't have touched, I realized he was never a cold man. He was just cold to me. Our eyes met across the crowded room. Clyde froze. Suddenly, the massive projector screen behind the stage flickered to life, displaying a montage of Serena and Clyde over the past three years. The moment our divorce papers were finalized, Serena had been appointed to the board, and Clyde had proposed to her on the very same day. "To my one and only," the caption read beneath a giant portrait of them smiling. Clyde had always told me he loathed taking photos. In our entire year of marriage, we had never taken a single professional photo together, let alone a wedding portrait. Yet there he was on screen, his smile radiant, his eyes bright. The public announcement was a physical blow, leaving me breathless. If my love for Clyde had been a flower planted in my youth, it had been growing in dry, poisoned soil for too long. It was time to pull it out by the roots. I raised my champagne flute toward him in a silent, distant toast. A toast to him, and a final farewell to the girl I used to be. As the crowd shifted, Clyde’s eyes remained locked on me. His brow furrowed, a sudden shadow crossing his face. Beside him, Serena saw me and instantly straightened her spine, slipping her hand possessively into his. I thought back to six months ago, when I had briefly regained consciousness in the ICU. Before I could even open my eyes, I had heard Clyde’s voice, raw and panicked, speaking to the surgeon. "She lost that much blood?!" he had hissed. "Is she still going to be able to act as Serena’s donor? We’ve kept her healthy for a year specifically for Serena’s transplant. Nothing can go wrong now!" That memory hit me like a physical wave. In the midst of the glittering gala, the realization of what I had been to him was so sharp it made everything else fade into static. Clyde excused himself from Serena and began walking toward me, cutting through the crowd. "Elaine," he said, his voice low and laced with irritation. "Stop this. Following me to events like this is pathetic. We agreed it was over." A few nearby guests gasped, followed by hushed, mocking titters. I stood there, my throat tight. I had indeed chased him once. I had added his favorite indie tracks to my playlists, listening to them on repeat until I knew every lyric. I had forced myself to watch his favorite sports teams until I fell asleep on the couch. I had swallowed every drop of his bitter tea, believing it was love. A cold draft swept in from the entrance, chilling me to the bone. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. Jude had heard enough. He stepped between us, his voice dangerous. "Back off, West. We’re leaving." But we didn't make it out cleanly. In the parking garage, Clyde’s shadow fell over us again. "Elaine!" I kept walking, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and unyielding. "You think parading Jude around in front of me makes you a winner?" he sneered. "Does he even know the truth about you? Does he know you can’t even carry a child?" I wrenched my hand free, taking a deliberate step back. It wasn't until weeks after that mountain car crash that the doctors told me I had been four weeks pregnant when the car rolled. The internal hemorrhaging had been so catastrophic that they had to perform an emergency hysterectomy to save my life. It was my deepest, most private agony. The secret shame I had wept over in the dark. And here he was, using it as a weapon to humiliate me in a concrete garage. A wave of coldness washed over me, starting from my chest and spreading to my fingertips. I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden shout from Jude cut through the silence. "Watch out!" A disheveled man had emerged from the shadows, a hunting knife gleaming in his hand. Clyde’s face went pale. Instinctively, he stepped forward, throwing his body in front of Serena, who had just exited the elevator. I tried to back away, to find cover behind a concrete pillar, but the lane was too narrow. Before I could move, a pair of hands shoved me violently from behind. It was Serena. In her panic, she had pushed me directly into the path of the attacker. The blade cut through the air, and then there was a cold, sharp sensation in my abdomen. The fabric of my dress tore, followed by a sudden, blooming warmth as blood began to soak through the silk. I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing on the bedside table. My abdomen was wrapped in thick layers of gauze, and even the slightest breath sent a searing pain through my torso. It was Jude. "Elaine, you're trending." I opened the news app. The headlines were screaming: #Clyde West Rushes Ex-Wife to ER in Middle of the Night# #A Reconciliation in the Works for the West Empire?# #Serena Reported to Have Mental Breakdown Outside Hospital# The photos were high-resolution. Clyde, his high-end bespoke suit entirely drenched in dark blood, carrying me through the emergency room doors. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror. I had seen him angry, bored, passionate, and cold. But I had never seen him look like he was about to unravel. The comments section was a mess: "Aren't they divorced?" "Look at how terrified he is. You can't fake that." "This looks staged. A PR stunt, surely?" I scrolled past them. But the next post made my fingers freeze. "An anonymous insider leaks the dark truth behind the West marriage." The post was vague but pointed directly to a single, horrific conclusion: a rare blood type, a years-long record of mandatory physical exams, and a silent, forced arrangement. "I heard Clyde married her specifically to keep her as a walking blood bank for his mistress." "Is this real? That's practically human trafficking." "In high society, anything is possible." "The ex-wife is a saint. She was literally a medical cow." My grip on the phone tightened. By nightfall, more documents began to leak. Comprehensive medical logs, blood transfusion receipts, bone marrow screening appointments—all detailing a history of forced giving. The internet went wild: "The current fiancée has been surviving on the ex-wife's blood." "No wonder she divorced him. This is straight out of a horror movie." "This needs a federal investigation!" The pain in my abdomen grew sharper, the hospital-grade painkillers finally wearing off. But it was nothing compared to the cold dread settling in my chest. These documents were highly classified. They weren't from a single hospital; they had been compiled over years from various private clinics. Only one person had access to all of them. Clyde. He had kept those records like a farmer keeps inventory of his livestock. Now, the scars I thought had healed were being ripped open for the world to see, raw and bleeding. Then, a live stream notification popped up on my screen. The title was bold: "Serena addresses the 'Blood Bank' rumors." On screen, Serena sat in a lavishly decorated room, her eyes red and puffy. She pulled back her silk sleeve to reveal a faint, thin white line on her wrist. The chat went wild. A reporter off-camera spoke up: "Miss Serena, is that a scar from self-harm due to the pressure of being labeled a parasite?" Serena’s tears fell beautifully, catching the studio light. "I really didn't want to do this. For years, everyone has called me a homewrecker. No one knows what I’ve actually been through." Her voice trembled. "Clyde is already so tired from taking care of me. I don't want anyone to misunderstand Elaine, either. Please, stop the hate." The comment section exploded with sympathy: "Oh my god, she tried to end her life?" "How can Elaine sleep at night knowing she drove someone to this?" "Elaine is a monster." I dialed Clyde’s number. He answered on the second ring. "Did you leak those medical files?" I asked, my voice entirely flat. Clyde let out a long, heavy sigh. "Serena’s mental state is extremely fragile right now, Elaine. After I carried you into the hospital, the press was slaughtering her online. You've always been strong. Just let her have this one. Take the hit for her." "Clyde," I interrupted, the name tasting like ash in my mouth. "Have you ever, for a single second in your life, felt a shred of remorse for what you did to me?" The line went dead quiet. No excuse. No denial. But silence was the loudest answer he could have given. In the quiet of the hospital room, I saw the ghost of the boy who had once pulled me out of the mud. He had been so bright, his smile so clean. It was tragic, really. The boy I had loved had rotted away, leaving behind a stranger with a familiar face. Even knowing how monstrous he had become, my heart still gave a small, pathetic squeeze at the memory of who he used to be. But that was the past. He was still standing on his gilded pedestal, and I had finally climbed down into the real world. The dry grass of my old love had finally burned to ash, carried away by the wind. I opened the camera app on my phone, started a live stream, and looked directly into the lens. "Hello, everyone. I am Elaine."