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The First Round

Auteur: Ophelia Vaughn
last update Dernière mise à jour: 2026-02-28 10:18:49

Chemotherapy started on a Thursday.

Clara insisted on walking into the oncology wing herself.

No wheelchair.

No dramatic goodbyes.

No tears.

She wore jeans and a loose sweater, hair pulled back like she was going to class instead of to poison her own blood.

Daniel walked beside her.

Too close.

Like if he blinked, she might disappear.

Lina followed a few steps behind, one hand resting unconsciously at the bottom of her stomach. The baby had been restless all morning. Or maybe that was just her n
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  • Exposed At The Altar   The Aftermath

    Lina’s POVThe first thing I noticed was the weight in my body.Not pain exactly. Just heaviness. Like every part of me had been drained of strength.My eyes opened slowly.White lights above me. Machines beside the bed. A faint beeping sound somewhere close.For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was.Then everything started coming back.The clinic.The forms.The name I had written down that wasn’t mine.Anna Cole.The procedure.My hand moved immediately to my stomach.Flat.Too flat.My chest tightened.A nurse noticed I was awake and quickly came over.“You’re awake,” she said gently.My voice felt dry. “What… happened?”“You had some complications during the procedure,” she said.The words hit me harder than expected.“Complications?”She checked the monitor beside my bed before answering.“There was significant bleeding. The doctors had to move quickly to stabilize you.”My throat tightened.“And the baby?”The nurse hesitated.Just for a second.Then she looked at me careful

  • Exposed At The Altar   The Choice

    Lina’s POVI did not tell anyone.Not Daniel.Not Maya.Not even Clara.Some decisions cannot survive other people’s voices.If I told Daniel, he would stop me.If I told Maya, she would ask questions.If I told Clara, she would refuse the transplant.So the only way this could happen was if no one knew until it was already done.I sat in the car outside the hospital parking lot for almost ten minutes before starting the engine. My phone rested on the passenger seat beside me.Three missed calls from Daniel.I ignored them.He had been calling more since the doctor warned about the pregnancy complications. He was worried. Protective. Constantly asking if I was resting, if the baby was moving, if I needed anything.Every time he spoke about the baby, something inside me twisted.Because he believed that child was safe.And I was about to destroy that belief.I picked up my phone and dialed the number Doctor Menon had written down for me earlier.A different clinic.A different doctor.

  • Exposed At The Altar   When The Body Refuses To Wait

    The hospital room was quiet when we arrived.Daniel carried the small bag while I handled the admission desk. The nurse took my ID, confirmed my name, and printed a bracelet. She fastened it around my wrist and pointed us toward the maternity monitoring unit.“You’ll stay here overnight,” she said. “We want continuous monitoring because of the pregnancy.”I nodded.Daniel stayed close as we followed her down the hallway.Inside the room, another nurse helped me onto the bed and lifted my shirt slightly so she could attach two round monitors to my stomach.One tracked the baby’s heartbeat.The other tracked contractions.A steady rhythm filled the room almost immediately.The baby’s heartbeat.Fast. Strong.The nurse smiled slightly when she heard it. “That’s what we like to hear.”Daniel stood near the foot of the bed watching the screen like it was the most important thing in the world.“Everything okay?” he asked.“So far, yes,” the nurse replied.She adjusted the belt around my sto

  • Exposed At The Altar   No Turning Back

    The house was quiet the morning after.Daniel had already left for the hospital before I came downstairs. He sent a short message.We need to finalize the schedule today.That was it.No long speech or paragraph.I ate half a slice of toast and couldn’t finish it. The baby shifted once, slow and it felt heavy. Thirty-one weeks felt different. Every movement was stronger now. More real.By ten, I was at the hospital.Dr. Menon didn’t waste time.“We’ve reviewed everything again,” she said. “You’re still the strongest match.”“I know.”“We’ll need additional fetal monitoring before and after the procedure.”“That’s fine.”“There’s risk of preterm contractions.”“I understand.”“There’s risk related to anesthesia.”“I’ve read it.”She looked at me carefully. “You’re certain.”“Yes.”“Your husband agreed?”“He doesn’t like it. But yes.”She nodded. “We’re scheduling the marrow harvest for Friday morning.”“That soon?”“Yes. The sooner the better.”“Okay.”“You’ll be admitted the night bef

  • Exposed At The Altar   No One Else Can Decide For Me

    I didn’t knock before entering his room.Daniel looked up from his desk. “You could at least pretend to knock.”“I’m donating.”Straight to the point. No greeting. He blinked once. “No.”“I wasn’t asking.”He leaned back slowly. “Lina.”“I’ve done the tests. I’m a match. A strong one.”“You’re pregnant.”“I’m aware.”“Twenty-eight weeks.”“I know how far along I am.”He stood up. “Then why are you talking like this?”“Like what?”“Like you don’t understand what you’re risking.”I crossed my arms. “I understand perfectly.”“No, you don’t.”“Don’t start that.”“Start what?”“Talking to me like I’m a child.”“You’re acting like one.”I let out a dry laugh. “Because I want to save your daughter?”“Because you’re trying to gamble with our baby.”“Our baby is alive.”“And you want to put that at risk.”“She’s dying.”He went quiet for a second.“She’s fighting,” he corrected.“And I can help her.”“She doesn’t want you to.”“I know.”“Then why are we even discussing this?”“Because she’s s

  • Exposed At The Altar   Still Here

    CLARA’S POV The morning smelled faintly of antiseptic, coffee, and the stale chill of early February. I dragged myself out of bed, hair messy, and shoulders heavier than I remembered, though I was still trying to pretend they weren’t. Every small movement felt like it had weight; every breath reminded me that this wasn’t just fatigue anymore. This was chemotherapy. I tried not to look at the calendar on my wall. Too many dates, too many appointments, too many needles. Each one felt like a countdown I didn’t want to acknowledge. The chemo nurse called it “routine” like saying that would make it easier to swallow. I didn’t swallow. The ride to the hospital was quiet. Daniel drove slower than usual, which I appreciated. He didn’t talk much, but I could feel the tension in his shoulders. I stared out the window, tracing the bare branches of trees, imagining them as the white veins inside me, fragile but still reaching, still holding life. When we got there, the waiting room felt big

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