Chapter 1

For ten years, I loved Lucas Reed in silence. I willingly signed the bone marrow donation papers to save Vivian Shaw, his precious one, who was battling leukemia.

On the day of the successful transplant, Vivian leaned into his arms and whispered with a smile, "Lucas, now I have her blood in me... does that mean you loved her, too, in a way?"

He kissed her forehead. "Silly, you're the only one I love."

I lay in the adjacent hospital room, their laughter drifting through the wall.

Four weeks later, Vivian was declared fully healed. Not long after, their engagement made the society pages.

When I found Lucas, pregnancy test in hand, his reaction was immediate and ice-cold. "Get rid of it. Vivian is finally well. I won't have her disturbed."

I said, "The doctor said my health is special. If I go through with this, I might never be able to have kids."

He scarcely seemed to hear. A check was swiftly written and pushed toward me. "Ten million dollars. Consider it settled."

I accepted the slip of paper, a slow smile touching my lips. "Lucas, there's something you should know.

"Vivian was never sick. Her leukemia... it was all a performance.

"And the marrow you took from me was the last viable match in existence—the only real chance left to bring your mother out of her vegetative state."

*****

The day I gave my bone marrow, he was busy kissing someone else.

The moment the needle pierced my hip bone, laughter drifted over from the next room.

Vivian's voice was soft and sweet. "Lucas, now I have her blood in me... does that mean you loved her, too, in a way?"

Lucas' voice was gentle, like he was soothing a child. "Silly, you're the only one I love."

The doctor pressed down on my trembling shoulders. "Dr. Sinclair, relax. If your muscles are too tense, the needle might break."

My jaw was locked, teeth grinding. Crescent moons bloomed in my palms where my nails dug deep.

The anesthetic had deadened skin and muscle, but nothing could blunt the raw agony of the needle piercing bone—the deep, grinding pull as marrow was drawn out. It felt like tearing something vital from the very core of my being.

Over and over, the needle went in.

Four hundred milliliters. The thick, blood-streaked liquid traveled through clear tubing into the collection bag.

With every drop, it seemed a piece of me was siphoned away—every shred of hope, every hidden longing I'd hoarded for ten years.

"You can cry out if you need to." The collection doctor's voice was soft, his eyes sympathetic behind his mask.

Silence was my only reply.

Beyond the wall, Lucas was waiting, holding Vivian—who now carried my marrow within her.

A single sob would only convince him I was being dramatic. After all, I'd chosen this.

*****

Three months earlier, the head of Hematology burst into Lucas' office, breathless. I was there, delivering the monthly reports.

"The match results are in! All ten markers are a perfect match!"

Lucas shot up from his chair. "Who?"

The director's excited gaze faltered, shifting toward me. His expression grew complicated. "It's... Dr. Sinclair."

The elation drained from Lucas' face.

He turned slowly, his eyes sweeping over me as if appraising an inconvenient instrument.

"You?" He gave a crooked smile. "A statistical miracle?"

My fingers tightened around the folder in my hands. "I hadn't expected it either."

And I truly hadn't. Out of hundreds screened across the hospital, why did it have to be me? The shadow who'd trailed after him for a decade, too timid to ever speak her heart.

"What do you want?" Lucas closed the distance between us. The hem of his white coat brushed my arm.

He carried the scent of antiseptic and a faint trace of sandalwood—the same cologne I'd bought for myself after once catching its trace on a security feed from his office, just to spray on my pillow at night.

"What do you mean?" I played dumb, my voice barely steady.

"Bone marrow donation isn't like giving blood, Nora." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur near my ear. "There are risks. It's painful. Recovery takes time. So name your price. Money? A promotion? Or..."

He paused, his breath warm against my skin. "Me?"

A shiver ran through me.

He knew. Of course he knew.

All those times I'd slipped stomach medicine into his desk drawer, the extra muffins I'd bought with his coffee, the late-night sandwiches I'd "happened" to bring during his shifts.

Lucas wasn't oblivious—he simply hadn't cared.

Now, he was laying my pathetic feelings on the table like a bargaining chip.

"I don't want money," I heard myself say, surprised at my own steadiness.

Lucas raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"And I don't want a promotion," I added.

"Oh?" He smirked, that mocking smile on his face. "So what do you want, Nora? Don't tell me you're doing this out of pure selflessness."

I met his eyes—the ones I'd sketched in notebook margins countless times, slightly upturned, always holding a mix of detachment and arrogance.

"I want you to promise me one thing," I said.

"Go on," he replied.

I drew in a shaky breath. "When Vivian recovers... Give me a shot."

"A shot at what?" he asked.

"A shot at winning you over," I said.

Silence hung in the office for several seconds.

Then Lucas laughed—a short, harsh sound of sheer disbelief.

"Nora, you think donating marrow can buy my affection?" he said, shaking his head as if watching a pathetic comedy act.

He took another step, his fingers tipping my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

"Listen, I'll be grateful if you do this. But that's where it ends. What I feel for Vivian has nothing to do with you. I will only ever love her," he said, his voice cold.

He released me, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the box on his desk to clean his fingers, as though he'd touched something unclean.

"Sign the papers if you want to donate. If not, leave. Don't use this as leverage."

With that, he turned and walked back behind his desk, resuming his work as if our conversation had been nothing but static.

I stood rooted to the spot, my nails cutting deeper into my palms until the skin burned.

This was the man I'd loved for ten years. Cold. Logical. Treating a heart as a commodity with a price tag.

"I'll donate," I said.

Lucas didn't look up. "Go see the director for the paperwork."

"But I don't want any compensation. I'm donating voluntarily—not taking a single cent," I added.

He finally lifted his head, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly smothered by indifference.

"Suit yourself," he said.

*****

Now, four hours of bone marrow collection were finally over.

By the time I returned to my room, I was soaked in cold sweat, my hospital gown clinging to my skin.

A deep, draining pain radiated from my bones, rising in persistent waves.

"Dr. Sinclair, you don't look well. Shall I page Dr. Reed?" the nurse asked, her brow furrowed.

"No need. He's probably with Ms. Shaw—" I said, closing my eyes.

Before I could finish, the door to my room swung open.

Lucas entered, his white coat hanging open over a sharply pressed shirt. He carried the faint, sweet fragrance of rose oil from Vivian's room.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, standing by the bed, his tone all business.

"I'm okay. How's Ms. Shaw?" I said, opening my eyes to look at him.

"Vivian's doing great. The transplant was a success—no rejection at all," he replied, his voice softening a little at her name.

"That's good," I said.

A heavy quiet filled the space between us.

Lucas scanned the monitor, then reviewed the nurse's chart.

"Looks like your hemoglobin is a bit low. I'll get you some iron supplements," he said, pulling out his pen to write the order.

The scratch of a pen on paper was the only sound.

I watched him as he wrote—the strong line of his nose, the sweep of his lashes. This man had been my entire youth: my inspiration, my pursuit, my quiet, relentless love.

A love deep enough to give away a part of myself.

"Lucas." My voice was soft but clear.

His pen paused. "What is it?"

"If... I mean, if the donor wasn't me, but someone else—would you be just as indifferent to them?"

He looked up, his eyes cool and assessing.

There was nothing in his eyes—just the detached gaze of a doctor.

"Nora, you volunteered for this. I never forced you," he said.

"I know," I replied.

He closed the chart, "So don't make it seem like I owe you anything."

He turned to leave.

"Lucas," I called out again.

He stopped at the door, didn't turn around, standing tall and unyielding.

"It's been ten years. I've liked you for ten years," I said softly.

The room was so quiet, I could hear the drip of the IV fluid.

Lucas' shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

Then he turned, his face an impassive mask. "So?" he said.

"And in all that time, did you ever once consider looking my way? Even for a second," I continued, my lips twisting into something that wasn't a smile.

He held my gaze, his own unwavering.

Seconds stretched. I waited, hoping for even a meaningless reassurance. None came.

He just said, "Nora, you can't force feelings."

"I know," I replied.

"Vivian is the only one I love," he said.

"I know," I said.

"So... don't waste your time on me," he said, the words deliberate.

With that, he opened the door and walked out.

The door closed softly, shutting out the light from the hallway.

Alone, I lay staring at the blank ceiling until a dry, humorless laugh escaped me.

It cracked into a sob, tears slipping silently into my hair.

Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty days.

Like a devout pilgrim, bowing with every step, I made my way toward the god I believed in.

But that god never once cast his gaze upon me.

He even thought I was a nuisance.

Just then, my phone started vibrating.

I wiped my tears, checked the screen—it was a number I didn't recognize.

I answered the call.

"Is this Ms. Nora Sinclair? This is Hope Haven Orphanage. You had a volunteer medical check-up here three months ago, and we need to confirm some results with you," a polite, middle-aged woman asked.

"What results?" I replied.

"Your blood sample showed pregnancy markers. You're pregnant—about eight weeks along," she said.

I clenched my phone in my hand.

That lines up exactly with two months ago—Lucas' birthday.

He was drunk that night, so I brought him back to his home. His arms wrapped around me, the name "Vivian" a slurred whisper against my ear before his mouth found mine.

I didn't push him away. It was the first time in ten years he had reached for me.

Even if, in that moment, he was seeing someone else.

"Ms. Sinclair? Are you still with me?"

"Yeah. Are you absolutely sure?" I rasped, my voice barely steady.

"Quite sure. We can schedule you with an obstetrician if—"

"No, that's alright. Thank you." I cut her off.

After hanging up, I placed my hand over my stomach.

It was still flat—nothing there, nothing I could feel.

But inside, there was a life. A baby. Mine and Lucas'.

No. Something was off. The timing was all wrong.

Eight weeks ago—Lucas' birthday. After that night, I ended up in the hospital for three days with acute gastroenteritis. I was on meds, got checked out, and ran all sorts of tests.

If I were pregnant, those tests should've caught it.

A chilling realization hit me.

My hands trembling, I scrolled through my contacts and called the number.

"Dr. Lewis? This is Nora Sinclair. I want to check my hospital records from two months ago—especially the meds and tests," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Barry Lewis got back to me quickly. "Dr. Sinclair, one moment... Found it. You were admitted for severe vomiting and diarrhea. We gave you anti-nausea meds and antibiotics, and did an abdominal ultrasound."

"What did the ultrasound show?" I pressed.

"The ultrasound showed..." Barry hesitated before saying, "An early pregnancy—about six weeks along."

Six weeks. Not eight. That meant I was already pregnant before Lucas' birthday.

The baby wasn't his. Then... whose was it?

It was like my memories had been ripped open, raw and bleeding.

Two months ago, at the hospital's annual party. I got wasted, and a colleague dropped me off at my hotel room. The next morning, my head was splitting, the sheets were a mess, and there were strange marks on my skin.

I'd always thought I just hurt myself while drunk.

Now that I thought about it, it sent chills down my spine.

My phone buzzed again—it was a text from Lucas: [Vivian and I are getting engaged next month. You'll come, right?]

I stared at the message, my fingers icy cold.

Then I replied: [I will. I'll be there.]

Pressing 'send' felt like sealing a tomb. Something withered and died inside me.

Ten years of secret love, a bone marrow donation, and a child whose father I didn't even know.

I murmured to myself, "Lucas, you think this is the end? No. This is just the beginning for me.

"From today on, the Nora Sinclair who loved you for ten years is gone.

"What's left is a woman who's going to take back everything you owe me.

"You want to use my bone marrow to save your precious Vivian?

"Then I'll bet my life against yours. Let's see, in the end, whose bone marrow really saves whose life."