Pregnancy insomnia had me wide awake at 2 AM, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, when I stumbled upon a video titled "Three Toasts to Destiny." In the video, a frail girl in a hospital bed was holding up a plastic medicine cup filled with ginger ale, toasting to her rebirth. The first toast is to my lover. Here’s to him suppressing his physical disgust to sleep with that woman. Just because she has O-negative blood, making her the perfect incubator to grow my "cure." The second toast is to the fetus. Because only that woman’s newborn stem cells are pure enough. So my lover tracked her ovulation, swapped out her birth control, and made sure she got pregnant. The third toast is to the due date. In three months, when the baby drops, my new life begins. As for the hollowed-out mother who gets left behind... who cares if she lives or dies. The comment section was flooded with people calling it "edgy" and "romantic." But reading it, my blood ran ice cold. Because five minutes ago, my husband, Ethan Carter—a top hematology specialist. Had just brought me a glass of warm milk and a Neonatal Stem Cell Directed Donation Consent Form. Ethan was dressed in his cozy cashmere loungewear, his gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his straight nose. He looked as gentle and refined as ever. He even thoughtfully tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Audrey, drink your milk and get some sleep. It’s good for the baby." His voice was so tender it could melt snow. If I hadn't just watched that video, I would have thought I was the luckiest pregnant woman in the world. I looked down at the consent form. Through the dense paragraphs of legal jargon, there was only one core takeaway: The umbilical cord blood and stem cells after the baby's birth would be donated, free of charge, to a patient named Lily Rivers. Lily. The name sounded awfully familiar. The ID of the girl in the video was "One White Lily." My hand trembled. Half the milk spilled onto the blankets. Ethan frowned slightly, but immediately grabbed some tissues to wipe my hands. His tone was a mix of reproach and pampering. "Why are you so clumsy? Did you burn yourself?" I pulled my hand back, avoiding his touch. "Ethan, who is this Lily? Why are we doing a directed donation specifically for her?" Ethan’s movements paused. Only for a second. He quickly recovered his natural composure and pushed the paper a little closer to me. "She’s a very pitiful young girl. Her leukemia relapsed, and her condition is critical. You have rare O-negative blood, and our baby likely will too. It's a perfect match." He looked into my eyes, his gaze deeply affectionate. "Audrey, you have the kindest heart. Just think of it as building good karma for our child, okay?" Good karma. That phrase from the video—who cares if she lives or dies—stabbed into my brain like an ice pick. I forced down the urge to vomit and pointed at my phone screen. "What about this video? Is this good karma too?" Ethan followed my gaze. On the screen, the woman in the hospital gown was smiling at the camera. On her wrist was a braided red thread bracelet. It was the exact one Ethan claimed he got from a mindfulness retreat in Sedona two years ago. He told me he lost it. Turns out, he lost it onto another woman's wrist. Ethan’s pupils shrank drastically. But he was too calm. Calm like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver. He took my phone, closed the app, and even casually tucked the blankets around me. "Don't read that garbage on the internet. People make up anything for views. And that bracelet? You can buy it at any tourist trap." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His lips felt freezing cold. "Be a good girl. Sign it and go to sleep. That patient is running out of time." That last sentence carried a barely detectable urgency. I stared at him. I had loved this face for seven years. From high school sweethearts to walking down the aisle, I thought he was my salvation. I never imagined he was a grim reaper coming for my life. I grabbed the pen and slashed a hard, jagged line across the consent form. "I’m not signing it." Ethan’s face instantly darkened. That night, Ethan didn't come back to our bedroom. He stayed in his study until dawn. The next morning, the dining table was covered with my favorite breakfast. Avocado toast, artisanal bone broth, fresh berries, and an unopened bottle of prenatal vitamins. Ethan served me breakfast with a smile, acting like nothing happened. "I had a bad attitude last night. Don't be mad, Audrey. We can talk about the donation later. Eat first." He pushed the bottle of pills toward me. "I had a colleague bring these back from Europe. Highest purity folic acid, great for the baby's brain development. Make sure you take them on time." If this were yesterday, I would have been incredibly touched. After all, he was a renowned medical authority and a notorious workaholic. Taking the time to care about these little details was proof of his love. But now, I just felt sick. I swallowed the pill right in front of him. Then, maintaining the warm, loving atmosphere, I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work. The second the front door clicked shut, I sprinted to the bathroom, shoved my fingers down my throat, and threw up my entire breakfast and the pill. Stomach acid burned my esophagus. Tears and snot smeared my face. I carefully scooped the dissolved remains of the pill into a Ziploc bag. That afternoon, I went to a private clinic. I sought out my best friend, Sarah, who worked as a pharmacist. The lab results came back fast. Sarah was holding the printout, her hands shaking. "Audrey, this isn't folic acid. This is Filgrastim! And it's an incredibly high dose!" "This drug is meant for bone marrow donors. It forces the bone marrow to overproduce stem cells and dump them into the bloodstream. The side effects are brutal. For a pregnant woman, long-term use can lead to liver and kidney failure, or even..." She didn't dare finish. I finished it for her: "Even maternal death, right?" Sarah nodded, her eyes red. I smiled. A smile uglier than crying. So, the phrase who cares if she lives or dies wasn't a hyperbole. It was a literal medical plan. He really wanted my life. Just to save his Lily. On my way home, my phone rang. It was Ethan. He was panting slightly, and the background noise was chaotic, like an ER. "Audrey, where are you? Your GPS says you're out." He had installed a tracker on my phone. He used to say it was to keep me safe. Now I knew it was just to monitor his "vessel." I watched the city streets blur past the car window, keeping my voice perfectly flat. "Just out buying some baby clothes. Why?" "Go home immediately! There are too many germs out there, you'll catch a bug." He paused, his tone suddenly dropping into something sinister. "Don't wander off. I'll worry." After hanging up, I clicked on "One White Lily's" profile. She had updated. This time, the photo was taken outside an ICU. The caption read: [That woman hasn't signed the form yet, but he told me to leave everything to him and rest easy. It's okay. For our future, I can endure anything.] A comment asked: "What if she finds out?" She replied: [What if she does? The baby is in her belly, the baby's life is in her hands. But her life, is in his hands.] My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. Ethan. If you want to play games. Let's play for keeps. I started acting completely normal. Taking my "medicine" on time, reporting my whereabouts. Sure enough, Ethan lowered his guard. To ease whatever twisted guilt he felt, he started coming home earlier, cooking for me, and massaging my swollen legs. His hands were dry and warm, hitting all the right pressure points. Looking at his focused profile, I suddenly asked, "Ethan, we should pick a name for the baby." His hands didn't stop. "Let's name him River." "What?" "River. Like a mighty, flowing river. It's a strong name." I sneered in my heart. River. For Lily Rivers. How poetic. How painfully devoted. "I want to go to Mount Sinai for my next checkup. I heard there's a specialist there who's amazing," I probed cautiously. Ethan's hands suddenly tightened, digging painfully into my calf. "No need." He looked up, the gaze behind his lenses chilling. "I am the best doctor. My colleagues are the best team. I don't trust outside physicians." "But..." "Listen to me." He cut me off, leaving no room for argument. "Your condition is unique. Only I understand your body perfectly. Don't go making a fuss out there. What if something goes wrong?" He made it sound so noble. In reality, he was terrified a real obstetrician would look at my bloodwork, see my hormone levels spiking dangerously, and realize I was being slowly murdered. Over the next two weeks, Ethan escalated his control. He hired a "nanny." He said it was to take care of me, but she was a warden. My keycard was confiscated. My cell reception became mysteriously spotty. I was a pig in a pen. Just waiting for slaughter day. Until late one night, Ethan got a frantic call and rushed out. He forgot to lock the study. I slipped in and found a folder on his desktop named "L & E". Encrypted. I tried my birthday. Error. Our wedding anniversary. Error. Finally, I typed in the date from Lily’s video—the day they celebrated their "rebirth." October 18th. The folder clicked open. It was packed with photos and medical records. Pictures of Lily bald from chemo, pictures of her leaning into Ethan's chest, laughing brilliantly. The timestamps spanned a decade. They were the high school sweethearts. I was just the tragic accident who got in the way, the unlucky fool who happened to have the golden O-negative blood. In a document titled Ovulation & Conception Protocol, I found something even more vile. Ethan had documented my menstrual cycles down to the hour. Which day he swapped the pills. Which day he poked holes in the condoms. Which days intercourse was strictly mandatory. Every single date corresponded to a night I had mistaken for passionate, spontaneous love. To him, those nights were just sickening, calculated breeding assignments. The last line of the document read: "Target Delivery: 32 weeks. Pre-term C-section to ensure maximum stem cell viability." 32 weeks. That was next week. He never intended for me to carry to term. A baby born at seven months would be fighting for its life. But he didn't care. He only needed the "cure." The front door clicked open. Ethan was back. I instantly killed the monitor and held my breath in the dark. Footsteps stopped right outside the study. The doorknob turned. I pressed myself behind the heavy velvet curtains, shaking uncontrollably. Ethan walked in. He seemed exhausted. He collapsed into his desk chair and lit a cigarette. In the dim glow of the cherry, his face was shadowy and hollow. "Lily, just hold on a little longer. It's almost over," he whispered to the empty room. "Next Tuesday. I'll schedule the surgery. You're going to be okay." My heart plummeted into an abyss. Next Tuesday. Three days from now. I waited until Ethan went to the master bedroom before I dared to creep back into my own room. I stared at the ceiling until dawn broke. The next morning, I intentionally threw myself down a flight of stairs. It made a horrific crash. The nanny screamed and frantically dialed Ethan's number. I curled on the hardwood floor, clutching my stomach, cold sweat pouring down my face. "It hurts... take me to the hospital, the nearest one, now!" Ethan roared through the speakerphone: "Do not take her anywhere else! Wait for me! I'm bringing an ambulance now!" The nanny was paralyzed with fear. I grabbed her arm, my nails biting into her skin. "I'm bleeding! Are you going to watch me die? If we both die, can you afford the prison time?!" That broke her. She dialed 911. Just as the paramedics arrived, Ethan’s SUV tore into the driveway. His eyes were bloodshot as he physically shoved a paramedic out of the way. "I am a doctor! She is my patient! And my wife! I am taking her to my hospital!" The EMTs looked shocked, but recognizing his badge and authority, they backed off. I was shoved into the passenger seat of Ethan's car. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. "Audrey, did you do that on purpose?" He figured it out. I was pale from genuine pain, but I forced a weak, pathetic smile. "Ethan, I was just so scared for the baby... why are you so angry?" Ethan didn't say a word. He drove me straight to his hospital and wheeled me right into a VIP suite. Not maternity. Hematology. In the bed next to mine lay Lily Rivers. It was the first time I saw her in person. She wasn't as arrogant as she was online. She was skin and bones, looking like a shattered porcelain doll. But the way she looked at me was pure, unfiltered greed. Like a starving wolf looking at a slab of meat. Ethan injected something into my IV. A sedative. Before the darkness pulled me under, I heard Lily's frail voice. "Ethan... is that her? My medicine?" Ethan stroked her hair, his voice dripping with a tenderness I had never received. "Don't talk like that. She's our benefactor." "What benefactor? She's a walking blood bag. Once the baby is out, she's useless anyway, right?" "Lily, stop it. The OR is prepped. You get ready too." "Ethan, do you really not feel bad? That is your child... and your wife." Silence. A long, suffocating silence. Then, Ethan's cold, dead voice. "Only the living have the right to claim a title. If she doesn't cooperate, she's nothing but medical waste." A tear slipped from the corner of my eye and soaked into the sterile pillow. So this is what it feels like when your heart truly dies. I was violently awakened by the shrieking of medical alarms. In the bed next to me, Lily was convulsing. The lines on her heart monitor were spiking erratically. Ethan burst through the doors like a madman, a crash team hot on his heels. "Push EPI! Charge the paddles!" The look in his eyes—sheer panic, utter despair—it was the shattering grief of a man watching his soulmate slip away. Nobody paid me any attention. I lay there like an invisible prop, a few feet away, coldly watching this life-and-death melodrama. Half an hour later, Lily was stabilized. Dead silence returned to the room. Ethan slumped into a chair between our beds, his white coat drenched in sweat. He pulled off his glasses, buried his face in his hands, and let out a suppressed, agonizing sob. "Audrey." A long time passed before he said my name. His voice was raspy, heavy with exhaustion. "She can't hold on. The original plan was Tuesday, but we have to do it sooner." He looked up. Those striking eyes I used to adore were bloodshot and filled with a terrifying, psychopathic resolve. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, we operate." A chill racked my body. I instinctively covered my belly. "It’s not even 32 weeks! Ethan, you're a doctor! You know the risks for a micro-preemie! His lungs aren't developed, he could suffer brain damage, he could die!" Ethan stood up and walked to my bedside. He didn't bother with the gentle husband facade anymore. He looked down at me from above, his eyes reflecting a clinically insane logic. "I know. That's why I've prepared the best NICU team, the most advanced incubators on the coast. As long as that baby comes out with a heartbeat, I will keep him alive." "But the priority is the stem cells. They must be fresh. They must be extracted at peak viability."
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