I Recorded His Plan to Harvest Our Baby’s Blood

The soothing voice of my yoga instructor still echoed in my mind as I waddled—yes, at eight months pregnant, there was no other word for it—into our Manhattan penthouse. I instinctively caressed my swollen belly, feeling my baby shift beneath my touch. Our baby. Mine and Alexander's. The thought still made me smile, even after five months of marriage.

"Alexander?" I called out, dropping my yoga mat by the entryway. Silence greeted me. Strange. His Bentley was in the garage, so he must be home.

I kicked off my shoes, relishing the cool marble beneath my swollen feet. Pregnancy had transformed my body in ways I never imagined, but Alexander had been nothing but supportive. Three years of pursuing him, of convincing him we were meant to be, and now we were here—married, with our first child only weeks away.

As I passed his study, a faint blue glow caught my eye. The door was slightly ajar—unusual for Alexander, who guarded his privacy fiercely. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the polished wood. He never left his study open. In five months of marriage, I'd never once been inside.

"Alexander?" I called again, softer this time. No response.

Something pulled me forward—curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper. I pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

The blue glow came from his computer, still running but abandoned. Yet it wasn't the computer that froze me in place. It was the walls.

Every inch was covered with photographs. Not the modern art Alexander claimed to collect, not family portraits or wedding photos. Just her. Isabella. Alexander's adopted sister.

My breath caught in my throat as I moved closer, my fingers trembling as they traced the edge of a frame. Isabella as a child, her wide eyes staring into the camera. Isabella as a teenager, pale but smiling from a hospital bed. Isabella last Christmas, wearing the diamond earrings Alexander had told me were family heirlooms.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of images. A shrine dedicated to a single person.

I pulled open a drawer, finding more photos spilling out. Some recent, some years old. Isabella at parties, on vacations, sleeping peacefully. The intimacy of some images made my skin crawl.

A sound in the hallway sent panic surging through me. I ducked behind a tall bookshelf just as the door swung open. Alexander stormed in, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice tight with stress.

"No, that's not acceptable." He jabbed at his desk phone, putting the call on speaker as he paced. "Dr. Finch, I've donated millions to Mount Sinai. Don't tell me what's 'medically advised.'"

I pressed myself against the bookshelf, praying my racing heart wouldn't give me away.

"Mr. Hayes," a weary voice responded, "the procedure has risks. Your wife is only at thirty-two weeks. The cord blood extraction—"

"We need that cord blood tomorrow—no excuses. Isabella's life depends on it." Alexander's voice cracked. "The accident is already arranged. The emergency C-section will happen, and you will be ready."

Accident? C-section?