Still, I nodded, my mind numb. “Then test me,” I said quickly. “I’ll donate if it matches. Take whatever he needs. Just… make him better.”
Two days later, I sat alone in the cold, sterile hospital room, waiting. Adrian wasn’t there—he was “handling business,” as always. My fingers twisted the edge of my sleeve until the doctor returned, file in hand, her expression unreadable.
“Mrs. Calder,” she said softly, “there’s a complication. Your blood type doesn’t match his.”
I frowned. “That’s impossible. I’m O positive… and Elias—”
“—is AB negative,” she interrupted gently.
My stomach dropped. “No… that can’t be.”
The doctor sat down across from me, her voice calm but firm. “There’s more. We ran a full genetic screening… Vivienne, you’re not biologically related to him. There’s no maternal link. You were never pregnant.”
I felt my knees weaken. “No… that’s wrong,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I remember everything. Morning sickness, the delivery, the nurses, holding the baby in my arms… I—”
“Sometimes,” the doctor said carefully, “medications or trauma can create false memories. Did you take anything at that time?”