Auctioned by Unfaithful Husband

The shrill ring of Marcellus's phone cut through the elegant atmosphere of Le Bernardin like a blade. I watched his face transform as he answered, the color draining from his features in a way that made my stomach clench with sudden dread.

"What?" His voice cracked, raw with an emotion I'd never heard from him before. "How bad is it?"

The conversation lasted mere seconds, but each word seemed to age him years. When he hung up, his hands were trembling.

"Marcellus, what's wrong?" I reached across the table, my fingers barely grazing his before he pulled away.

"I have to go." He was already standing, throwing his napkin down with such force that our wine glasses rattled. "There's been an accident."

"An accident? Who—"

"Ana." The name fell from his lips like a prayer, soft and reverent in a way he'd never spoken mine. "She's at Mount Sinai. Critical condition."

Ana. The name I'd heard whispered in his sleep, the ghost that haunted the edges of our marriage. My throat constricted as I watched him frantically signal for the check.

"I'm coming with you," I said, but he was already moving toward the exit.

"No, Serenity. Stay. Finish dinner." He didn't even look back.

I sat there for a moment, surrounded by the soft murmur of other diners' conversations, the clink of silverware against china, the normal sounds of a world that suddenly felt foreign. Then I threw down my own napkin and followed him.

The hospital corridors blurred past as I hurried to catch up with Marcellus's long strides. He moved with desperate purpose, his usual composed demeanor completely shattered. When we reached the emergency department, he immediately cornered the nearest doctor.

"Ana Hawkins—where is she? I need to see her now."

The young resident looked overwhelmed. "Sir, she's in surgery. The injuries are severe—massive blood loss, possible internal bleeding—"

"I don't care what it costs." Marcellus's voice turned sharp, commanding. "Get your best surgeons. I want every available unit of her blood type. Now."

"Mr. Oliver, we're doing everything we can, but—"

"Not enough." He turned to me then, his eyes wild with panic I'd never seen before. "Serenity, you're O-negative, aren't you? Universal donor?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "Marcellus, I—"

"She needs blood. You can help her."

I stared at him, seeing a man I didn't recognize. This wasn't the controlled businessman I'd married, the man who calculated every decision. This was someone raw, desperate, completely undone.

"I'm not feeling well," I said quietly. "I've been dizzy lately, and—"

"Please." The word broke from him like a sob. "Please, Serenity. She's dying."

The nurse led me to a small room where they inserted the needle with practiced efficiency. I watched my blood flow through the clear tubing, each drop carrying away a piece of my strength. Through the thin walls, I could hear Marcellus on the phone, his voice tight with authority as he arranged for private specialists, additional equipment, whatever Ana