"Stop throwing tantrums," he said flatly, as if trying to erase the moment that had just passed.
"You're not going to die. We've checked everything, and we still don't know what's wrong with you." His tone shifted, becoming more calculated, more deliberate. "I recently acquired a black clinic. Private. Off the books. They'll draw some blood. Figure it out."
He paused briefly, his gaze flickering as if weighing his next words.
"Maybe… maybe we can use it for the baby in Celeste's belly…"
Before he could finish, I had already rolled up my sleeve.
Silently.
Calmly.
I extended my arm toward him, pale skin exposed, veins faintly visible beneath it.
"Go ahead," I said softly. "Draw it. The more, the better."
Something in his chest tightened.
He couldn't quite explain it. The feeling was subtle but unmistakable, like a thread pulling somewhere deep inside him. But he had already promised Celeste. He had already decided that whatever secret existed within me would belong to their child.
So he forced that discomfort down, burying it beneath logic, beneath purpose.
Without another word, he called the family surgeon.