The receptionist handed me a clipboard with a stack of forms attached to it. Her practiced smile never reached her eyes.
“Fill these out completely. Make sure to check any boxes for high-risk behaviors or medical conditions. When you’re done, take a seat until we call your name.”
I nodded, shame burning hot beneath my skin as I retreated to an empty corner of the donation center’s waiting room. The blue vinyl chair squeaked as I sat down, and I stared at the forms, my vision blurring slightly.
Harper Bennett, age 53.
Current address.
I hesitated, then wrote down my sister Clare’s address. Six months ago, I would have written the penthouse on Lakeshore Drive. Six months and a lifetime ago.
Around me, college students scrolled through phones. An elderly man dozed in the corner. And a young woman in scrubs, probably coming off a night shift, filled out her own forms with practiced efficiency. All of us here to trade parts of ourselves for cash.
The difference was that they looked like this was routine. I felt like an impostor in my carefully pressed blouse, the last remnant of my former wardrobe saved for job interviews that never materialized.
Just for the plasma, I whispered to myself, clicking my pen repeatedly. Just $40 for Mia’s medication.
My daughter’s asthma had flared badly since we lost our health insurance. The medication cost $60, and I had exactly $22.47 in my checking account. I’d spent the morning calling pharmacies, searching for the lowest price, but there was no way around it. My daughter needed her inhaler, and I was out of options.
I filled out the medical questionnaire with meticulous honesty. No recent tattoos. No travel to malaria-endemic countries in the past six months, a first in decades. I used to coordinate events around the world.
No history of drug use? No.
I hadn’t recently been in prison.
“Have you ever fainted during a medical procedure?”
I checked no, though I considered checking yes, just to have someone attend to me a bit more carefully. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch—a peanut butter sandwich at Clare’s kitchen table while she was at work. The lowest moment of a day filled with low moments.
“Harper Bennett?”
A young woman in colorful scrubs stood at the doorway, clipboard in hand. I gathered my purse and followed her through to a small screening room with a blood pressure cuff and scale.
“First time donor?” she asked, gesturing for me to sit.
“Is it that obvious?” I attempted a smile.
“We remember our regulars,” she said kindly, wrapping the cuff around my arm. “I’m Andrea. I’ll be handling your intake and initial screening today.”
Andrea was probably in her late twenties, with a warm smile and gentle efficiency as she took my vitals. When she wrapped the tourniquet around my arm to check my veins, she let out an appreciative whistle.
“You have amazing veins for donation,” she said. “This is going to be super easy. Some folks we have to hunt and prod, but yours are right there saying hello.”
“At least some part of me is still functioning properly,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
Andrea gave me a curious look but didn’t pry. Instead, she prepared to take the preliminary blood sample, swabbing the crook of my arm with alcohol.
“Small pinch,” she warned, and then slid the needle in.
I barely felt it.
“See? Perfect veins. You were made for this.”
The dark red liquid filled the small vial quickly. Andrea labeled it and set it aside, then prepped a second tube.
“Just need to check a few basic levels before we proceed with the full donation.”
As she worked, I found myself studying the donation center more carefully. The walls were lined with posters about saving lives, community service, and the scientific benefits of plasma donation. Nothing about the $40 that had brought me and likely most others here today.
“All done with this part,” Andrea said, placing a cotton ball over the tiny puncture and bending my arm up. “I’ll run these quick tests, and if everything looks good, we’ll get you set up for the full donation. Should only take a few minutes.”
I nodded, waiting patiently while she left with my blood samples. Through the thin walls, I could hear the quiet hum of machines and occasional beeps from the donation room next door.
The reality of what I was doing—selling my plasma to buy my daughter’s medication—hit me anew.
How had Elegance by Harper, the premier event planning business in Chicago for two decades, collapsed so completely?
How had Gavin, my husband of twenty-five years, walked away so easily?
“You’ve ruined our lives,” he’d said, packing his clothes while I sat numb on our bed, as if the spoiled seafood that poisoned half the guests at the Lakeside Bank anniversary gala had been a deliberate act on my part, rather than a catastrophic equipment failure.
I was pulled from my bitter memories when the door opened again.
Andrea returned, but her expression had changed dramatically. She was pale, her eyes wide, clutching my blood sample tube as if it contained nitroglycerin.
“Mrs. Bennett,” she said, her voice noticeably different. “I need to… There’s a—”
She stopped, composed herself.
“Would you mind waiting just a few more minutes? Dr. Stewart needs to verify something with your sample.”
“Is something wrong?” My heart skipped. “Am I sick?”
“No, no, it’s not like that.”
Her reassurance seemed genuine.
“It’s actually… Just wait, please. Dr. Stewart will explain everything.”
Before I could press further, she hurried out again, still carrying my blood sample.
Five minutes stretched to ten, then fifteen. I considered gathering my things and leaving. Clearly something strange was happening.
When the door opened again, a man in his late forties wearing a white coat entered, followed by Andrea. His expression was one of barely contained excitement.
“Mrs. Bennett, I’m Dr. James Stewart, medical director here.”
He extended his hand, which I shook automatically.
“I apologize for the wait, but we needed to confirm something quite extraordinary about your blood.”
“Extraordinary?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
He sat on the rolling stool across from me, leaning forward.
“Mrs. Bennett, you have what we call Rh-null blood. It’s often referred to as ‘golden blood’ because it’s the rarest blood type on Earth. There are only about forty-two known people worldwide with this blood type.”
I stared at him, certain I’d misheard.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Your blood lacks all Rhesus antigens. It’s universally compatible with any other rare blood type.” His voice contained an almost reverential quality. “To find a new Rh-null donor is… well, it’s like discovering a unicorn.”
As I struggled to process this information, a sharp series of beeps came from Dr. Stewart’s pocket. He pulled out a pager, glanced at it, and his eyebrows shot up.
“Mrs. Bennett, would you excuse me for just a moment? This is urgent. I’ll be right back to explain everything in more detail.”
He left the room in a rush, leaving me alone with Andrea, who was still looking at me like I’d sprouted wings.
“What does this mean?” I asked her. “I just came for $40.”
Andrea smiled, a strange mix of awe and sympathy in her expression.
“I think, Mrs. Bennett, your day is about to change in ways you can’t imagine.”
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Stewart returned with a third person in tow, a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit who looked wildly out of place among the clinic’s utilitarian furnishings. His presence exuded authority, like someone accustomed to rooms falling silent when he entered.
“Mrs. Bennett, this is Tim Blackwood,” Dr. Stewart said, his voice pitched slightly higher than before. “He’s a representative for the Richter family and has come here specifically to speak with you.”
The suited man stepped forward, extending a manicured hand.
“Mrs. Bennett, it’s an honor. I apologize for this unconventional introduction, but time is of the essence.”
I shook his hand automatically, feeling increasingly disoriented.
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Dr. Stewart gestured for everyone to sit.
“Our system automatically logs rare blood types in an international database. When we confirmed your Rh-null status, it triggered an alert. Mr. Blackwood was already in Chicago on other business.”
“Fortuitous timing,” Tim Blackwood said with practiced smoothness. “Mrs. Bennett, are you familiar with Alexander Richter?”
The name rang a distant bell.
“The Swiss banker. I believe his family sponsored the International Finance Summit in Geneva a few years ago. My company had bid on the event but lost to a local firm.”
“Precisely.” Blackwood nodded, seemingly impressed. “Mr. Richter is currently facing a critical health situation. He requires heart surgery that can only be performed with transfusions from an Rh-null donor. His medical team has been searching for a compatible donor for weeks.”
Dr. Stewart added, “Your blood type is the only match they found in the Western Hemisphere.”
I looked between them, struggling to process what they were implying.
“You want my blood for this billionaire’s surgery?”
“We’re prepared to compensate you substantially for your assistance,” Blackwood said, opening a slim leather portfolio. “The Richter family is offering three million dollars for your immediate cooperation. A private jet is standing by at the executive airport to transport you to Switzerland today.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Three million.
“The procedure would require multiple donations over approximately two weeks,” Dr. Stewart explained. “It’s intensive, but not dangerous with proper medical supervision, which you would receive at Switzerland’s finest private clinic.”
Three million.
The figure hung in the air, almost absurd in its magnitude. Six hours ago, I’d been panicking about finding $40 for my daughter’s medication. My business debts alone had topped two million. Everything I’d built over twenty years, gone in a single disastrous night. And now this stranger was offering to erase it all because of something in my veins I hadn’t even known existed until today.
“This is a joke, right?” I whispered.
“I assure you, Mrs. Bennett, this is entirely serious,” Blackwood said. “Perhaps this will convince you.”
He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and handed it to me. On the screen was a bank transfer authorization for $250,000.
“A deposit,” he explained.
My hands trembled as I handed back the phone.
“I need to call my daughter.”
Andrea quickly brought me to a private office with a phone. Mia answered on the second ring.
“Mom, is everything okay? Did you get the money for—”
“Mia.” I cut in, my voice shaking. “Something incredible just happened.”
I explained the situation as best I could. There was a long silence after I finished.
“Mom, this sounds insane,” she finally said. “Like organ trafficking or something.”
“I verified Dr. Stewart’s credentials,” I assured her, having insisted on seeing his medical license before making the call. “And the RTOR Banking Group is legitimate. I catered an event for one of their partner firms years ago.”
“So, you’re going to Switzerland today?”
“If I do this, we can pay off all the debt. You can go back to school. We can start over.”
Another pause.
“What’s the alternative?”
“Not doing it.”
I considered this. If I walked away, I’d still be homeless, unemployed, and desperate for $40. My daughter would still be working retail instead of finishing her architecture degree.
“I don’t think there is an alternative, honey.”
“Then go,” Mia said firmly. “But promise you’ll stay in constant contact and have everything in writing before you agree.”
After hanging up, I requested time to review the contract Blackwood had produced. Years of negotiating catering contracts had taught me to read fine print carefully. The agreement was comprehensive: the sum, the medical protocols, accommodations at a private clinic, transportation.
I insisted on several modifications—a detailed schedule of donations, limits on volume per session, and an explicit right to halt the process if my health was compromised. Blackwood seemed surprised by my thoroughness but acquiesced to my changes.
“You’re more astute than I anticipated, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Until recently, I ran a multi-million-dollar company,” I replied evenly. “This may be unusual business, but it’s still business.”
Three hours later, I found myself ascending the steps to a private Gulfstream jet, carrying only my purse and a small overnight bag hastily packed from Clare’s guest room. Andrea had hugged me goodbye, slipping me her personal number and extracting a promise to let her know I was safe.
As the plane taxied for takeoff, I stared out the window at Chicago’s skyline, growing smaller. Somewhere in that grid of buildings was the luxury apartment I’d lost, the office where I’d built my company, and the life I’d thought defined me.
“Mrs. Bennett, can I offer you something to drink?”
A flight attendant appeared at my side. “We have a full meal service prepared for the flight to Zurich.”
“Just water for now, thank you.”
My stomach was too knotted to consider food. Across the aisle, Tim Blackwood worked on his laptop, occasionally making calls in fluent German and French. From snippets, I overheard Alexander Richter’s condition had stabilized enough for surgery, but they were in a race against time.
As the plane leveled at cruising altitude, I pulled out my compact mirror and studied my reflection. I looked like the same Harper Bennett—the silver strands in my dark hair that I’d finally stopped dyeing last year, the fine lines around my eyes that Gavin had suggested I “do something about,” the stubborn set of my jaw that my father always said I’d inherited from him.
Nothing about me suggested I carried something so rare and valuable inside.
“Mrs. Bennett,” Blackwood called, interrupting my thoughts. “Dr. Klaus Weber, Mr. Richter’s personal physician, would like to speak with you via video conference to explain the medical procedure in detail.”
As I moved to join him, a strange calm settled over me. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worthless, abandoned by my husband, a failed businesswoman, a burden on my sister. Now I was racing across the Atlantic because my blood could save one of the wealthiest men in Europe.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. After losing everything external that I thought defined my value, it turned out my true worth was something I’d been carrying in my veins all along.
The private clinic perched on the edge of Lake Geneva looked more like a luxury resort than a medical facility. Floor-to-ceiling windows captured the stunning panorama of alpine mountains reflecting in crystal waters. My suite—and it was a suite, not a hospital room—featured a separate sitting area, a marble bathroom larger than Clare’s entire guest room, and a private balcony with a view that would have cost thousands per night in my former life.
I’d barely settled in when a soft knock announced the arrival of my medical team.
Dr. Klaus Weber was a distinguished man in his sixties with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him an academic air. He was accompanied by two nurses who exuded the quiet efficiency that defined Swiss healthcare.
“Mrs. Bennett, welcome to Clinique Desalp,” Dr. Weber said, his English precise with only the faintest German accent. “I trust your journey was comfortable.”
“Quite,” I replied, still adjusting to this surreal transition from desperate plasma donor to VIP patient. “Though I’m eager to understand exactly what I’ve agreed to.”
Dr. Weber nodded approvingly.
“Of course. Transparency is essential.”
He gestured to the sitting area where the nurses were already setting up equipment for what appeared to be a preliminary examination. Over the next hour, Dr. Weber explained the procedure in meticulous detail.
Alexander Richter suffered from a rare congenital heart defect that had recently deteriorated, requiring urgent surgery. The procedure was complex and would require multiple blood transfusions. But the real challenge was his immune system’s hypersensitivity.
“Any blood except Rh-null would trigger a catastrophic reaction.”
“Your blood is quite literally the difference between life and death for Mr. Richter,” Dr. Weber concluded. “We will require several donations before surgery and potentially more during his recovery phase.”
As he spoke, the nurses took my vitals, drew blood samples, and performed a comprehensive health assessment. I submitted to their tests, watching with detached curiosity as they handled my blood samples with extraordinary care, labeling them with color-coded systems I didn’t recognize.
“When will the first donation take place?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning, if your tests confirm you’re in suitable condition,” Dr. Weber replied. “We’ve designed a nutrition and hydration protocol to optimize your recovery between donations.”
He handed me a leather-bound folder.
“Your complete schedule, dietary guidelines, and supplementation regimen are detailed here.”
After they left, I stood on the balcony watching twilight settle over Lake Geneva. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine from the surrounding forests. I tried calling Mia, but it went to voicemail. She would be at work now. Instead, I sent her photos of the clinic and a detailed update on the medical plan.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text just as I was finishing.
To my surprise, it was from Gavin, my first contact from him in months that wasn’t through lawyers.
Harper. Heard rumors you’re in Switzerland for some medical procedure. Are you ill? Should I be concerned?
The message was so perfectly Gavin, phrased as concern but undoubtedly motivated by self-interest. Had news about my rare blood condition already leaked to the press, or had he somehow tracked my sudden international travel?
I typed and deleted several responses before settling on:
Not ill. Taking care of business. No need for concern.
His reply came immediately.
We should talk when you return. I’ve been doing some thinking about our situation.
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing across the empty suite.
“I bet you have,” I muttered, leaving him on read.
The man who told me I’d ruined our lives. Who emptied our joint accounts before I even knew what was happening. Who moved in with his thirty-two-year-old marketing coordinator while I was still reeling from the collapse of my business. That man suddenly wanted to talk now that I might have access to millions.
A knock interrupted my bitter reminiscence.
When I opened the door, I found Tim Blackwood holding a garment bag.
“Mrs. Bennett, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “Mr. Richter has requested your presence at dinner, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Mr. Richter is here?” I asked, surprised. I had assumed he’d be in intensive care.
“He’s in the private wing,” Blackwood explained. “Against medical advice, he insists on meeting the woman whose blood will save his life. The dinner will be brief and carefully monitored by Dr. Weber.”
He handed me the garment bag.
“We took the liberty of providing appropriate attire, as we understood your travel arrangements were hastily made.”
Inside was an elegant black dress that looked suspiciously my size, along with shoes and a simple pearl necklace. The presumption might have offended me once, but pragmatism overrode pride. I hadn’t packed anything suitable for dining with a billionaire.
Ninety minutes later, I was escorted to a private dining room where Alexander Richter awaited.
My first impression was of a man whose physical frailty contrasted sharply with his commanding presence. Tall and gaunt, with deep-set eyes that evaluated me with unsettling intensity, he rose slowly as I entered, leaning slightly on an ornate walking stick.
“Mrs. Bennett,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “Please join me.”
He gestured to the chair across from him at a small table elegantly set for two. A nurse stood discreetly in the corner, monitoring his vital signs remotely on a tablet.
“Mr. Richter,” I acknowledged, taking the offered seat. “I must admit, this isn’t how I expected my day to unfold when I woke this morning.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“Nor did I anticipate meeting the woman whose veins hold the key to my survival.”
He poured water from a crystal carafe.
“Tell me, what circumstances led you to that donation center in Chicago today?”
The directness of his question caught me off guard.
“I needed $40 for my daughter’s asthma medication.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Forty dollars? That seems a remarkably small sum to drive someone of your apparent quality to sell their plasma.”
I bristled slightly at his assumption, even if it was accurate.
“Six months ago, I owned a successful event planning business, a penthouse on Lakeshore Drive, and thought I had a solid marriage,” I said. “Life can change quickly, Mr. Richter.”
“Indeed, it can,” he agreed, studying me with renewed interest as servers silently appeared with our first course. “What happened?”
Perhaps it was the surreality of the situation, or simple exhaustion, but I found myself telling him the unvarnished truth: the catastrophic equipment failure that poisoned half the guests at the Lakeside Bank gala, the lawsuits that followed, the supplier who declared bankruptcy leaving me liable, and finally Gavin’s abandonment when our assets evaporated.
“So this morning I needed $40 I didn’t have,” I concluded, realizing I’d barely touched my food during this recounting. “And now I’m dining in Switzerland with a man prepared to pay millions for my blood. Life is nothing if not unpredictable.”
Richter listened without interruption, his expression inscrutable. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment before responding.
“Do you know what I find most interesting about your story, Mrs. Bennett?” he asked finally.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve lost everything external—your business, your home, your husband. Yet you still carry within you something of extraordinary value that no one can take away.”
He gestured toward my arm, where the tiny mark from this morning’s blood test was barely visible.
“There’s a profound metaphor there, don’t you think?”
Our eyes met across the table, and in that moment, I felt seen in a way I hadn’t in years, perhaps even during my marriage. This stranger, this billionaire fighting for his life, had distilled my situation to its essence in a way that both disarmed and disturbed me.
“I suppose there is,” I agreed quietly, though I’d trade metaphorical profundity for my daughter’s college tuition in a heartbeat.
He laughed then, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him before a slight wince crossed his features. The nurse immediately stepped forward, but he waved her away.
“I believe we’ll get along well, Mrs. Bennett,” he said, composing himself, “and I suspect our arrangement may benefit us both in ways neither of us yet understands.”
The first donation took place the following morning in a state-of-the-art room that resembled a spa more than a medical facility. I reclined on a heated leather chair as Dr. Weber’s team prepared their equipment with choreographed precision.
“We’ll be taking one unit today,” Dr. Weber explained, checking the catheter in my arm. “Your comfort and safety are our priority, Mrs. Bennett. If you experience any discomfort, please alert us immediately.”
I nodded, watching my dark red blood flow through the tube and into a specialized collection bag. The rich crimson liquid that had been worthless to me yesterday was now being handled like liquid gold.
“What makes my blood so special?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I understand it’s rare, but what exactly is different about it?”
Dr. Weber adjusted his glasses, seemingly pleased by my interest.
“Most people have Rhesus antigens—protein markers—on their red blood cells. You have none. Your blood lacks all sixty-one possible Rhesus antigens, making it compatible with any blood type in emergency situations. More importantly, for Mr. Richter’s case, your blood won’t trigger the severe immune response that would occur with standard transfusions.”
“And no one in his family is a match?”
“Blood type isn’t simply inherited like eye color,” he explained. “Rh-null is caused by a specific genetic mutation. The odds of finding it in his family were negligible.”
The donation took less than fifteen minutes, but Dr. Weber insisted I remain for observation for two hours afterward. A chef delivered a gourmet meal rich in iron and proteins, along with fresh-pressed juice and mineral supplements. The level of care was extraordinary, a stark contrast to the assembly-line approach I’d expected at the Chicago donation center.
When I returned to my suite, I found a small gift box waiting on the coffee table with a handwritten note from Alexander Richter.
A token of appreciation for today’s contribution. The first of many, I hope. —A.R.
Inside was a delicate platinum bracelet with a single ruby charm—simple, but elegant and undoubtedly expensive. I set it aside, unsure about the propriety of accepting such a gift, and called Mia.
“Mom.” She answered immediately. “I was about to call you. Are you okay? Did they take your blood yet?”
“Just finished,” I assured her. “The procedure was easy—much more pleasant than I imagined the donation center would have been.”
I described the clinic and the meticulous care I was receiving.
“That’s good,” she said, but I detected hesitation in her voice.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Dad showed up at Aunt Clare’s looking for you.” Her tone hardened. “When Clare told him you were in Switzerland, he started asking all these questions about why and who you were with. He seemed… I don’t know… calculating.”
I sighed, unsurprised.
“He texted me yesterday. Did he mention wanting to talk when I get back?”
“Yes. He told Clare he’d been rethinking things and realized he’d acted hastily. Can you believe that?”
“Unfortunately, I can.”
I moved to the balcony, staring out at the lake.
“Has anything about my blood condition hit the news?”
“Nothing specific, but there was a small article about the Richter Banking Group preparing for a major medical procedure involving their CEO. It mentioned flying in a critical medical resource from America. Maybe he connected the dots.”
Gavin had always been astute about following money. If he’d caught even a whisper of my potential windfall, he would reappear like a shark in blood—an ironic metaphor given the circumstances.
“Mom,” Mia continued, her voice dropping. “You don’t… you wouldn’t consider getting back together with him, would you?”
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “Twenty-five years of marriage ended the moment he walked out. No amount of money changes that.”
After we hung up, I spent the afternoon resting as instructed, flipping through Swiss magazines without really seeing them. My mind kept returning to Alexander Richter’s observation—how I’d lost everything external yet still carried something of extraordinary value inside me.
The metaphor wasn’t lost on me, but I couldn’t help wondering: Was my value now reduced to this biological quirk? Was I merely a resource again, this time for my blood instead of my event-planning expertise?
A knock interrupted my brooding.
Andrea Rodriguez, the nurse from Chicago, stood at my door, her familiar face a surprising comfort in this foreign environment.
“Andrea, what are you doing here?” I exclaimed.
She smiled broadly.
“Dr. Stewart arranged for me to join the medical team. Since I was the first to identify your Rh-null status, they thought I might be helpful during the donation process.”
She looked around the suite, clearly impressed.
“Quite a step up from our clinic, isn’t it?”
We settled in the sitting area, and Andrea’s presence eased some of my isolation. She explained that she’d specialized in rare blood disorders during her training before financial necessity pushed her toward the steadier income of the donation center.
“How are you holding up?” she asked. “It’s a lot to process in twenty-four hours.”
“It’s surreal,” I admitted. “Yesterday, I was desperate for $40, and today a billionaire gave me a ruby bracelet for one unit of blood.”
Andrea’s eyes widened.
“He gave you jewelry?”
I showed her the bracelet, still in its box.
“Is that inappropriate? I haven’t decided whether to accept it.”
“It’s unusual,” she said carefully. “In normal medical practice, there are strict ethical guidelines about gifts between patients and donors, but nothing about this situation is normal.”
We were interrupted by Tim Blackwood, who appeared with an update on the schedule. My blood work showed excellent recovery, and they wanted to proceed with a second donation the following morning. The surgery was tentatively scheduled for three days later.
“Mr. Richter has also requested another meeting with you tomorrow evening,” Blackwood added. “He found your conversation stimulating and believes reducing his stress levels will benefit his pre-surgical condition.”
“Is that medically sound, or is he using his condition to get what he wants?” I asked bluntly.
Blackwood’s expression remained professional, but I caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“In my experience, Mrs. Bennett, with Mr. Richter, those two things are rarely mutually exclusive.”
After he left, Andrea gave me a concerned look.
“Just be careful about boundaries, Harper. The power dynamic here is already complicated enough.”
She was right, of course. I was simultaneously invaluable and vulnerable—the literal lifeblood for a man accustomed to wielding enormous power, yet dependent on him for financial rescue. I needed to navigate this strange relationship carefully.
That evening, I received another text from Gavin.
Called Clare looking for you. Why didn’t you tell me about Switzerland? What medical procedure requires international travel? We should discuss this together as family.
I stared at the message, anger bubbling up from some deep reservoir I thought had run dry months ago.
“As family,” I said aloud to the empty room.
The audacity was breathtaking. The man who’d emptied our accounts and moved in with another woman while I was still shell-shocked from losing my business now wanted to invoke family ties.
I typed a reply, deleting and rewriting several times before settling on:
We’re not family anymore, Gavin. You made that abundantly clear when you left. My medical decisions are no longer your concern.
His response came immediately.
Don’t be hasty, Harper. People make mistakes. I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately.
“I bet you have,” I muttered, setting my phone aside without responding.
I moved to the window, watching lights twinkle along the shoreline of Lake Geneva. Tomorrow they would take more of my blood—this substance that had suddenly transformed me from worthless to priceless in the eyes of the world.
But its value had always been there, unrecognized, flowing through my veins every day of my life.
The realization brought an unexpected sense of peace. Whatever happened with Alexander Richter, whatever Gavin was plotting, whatever the future held, I carried my true worth within me and always had.
By the third day, the clinic staff had settled into a routine around my presence. The morning nurses greeted me by name. The chef prepared my post-donation meals according to my preferences, and even Tim Blackwood had softened his formal demeanor slightly.
I donated two units of blood, with a third scheduled for tomorrow, and my body was holding up well thanks to the meticulous care I was receiving.
What I hadn’t expected was Alexander Richter’s continued interest in my company. After our initial dinner, he’d requested another meeting and then another. Each conversation revealed more layers to this complex man who held such power in the financial world, yet now found himself utterly dependent on a stranger’s biological quirk.
“You didn’t have to accept, you know,” he remarked during our third meeting, a lunch in the clinic’s private garden.