Chapter 9 Confessions in Disinfectant

Three weeks after the custody hearing, Sophie's recovery took a devastating turn. What began as a slight fever quickly escalated into full-blown transplant rejection. I was reviewing patient files in Daniel's home office when the call came from the hospital.

"Dr. Montgomery, Sophie's white count is crashing. We need you here immediately."

Daniel and I barely spoke during the frantic drive to the hospital, our shared fear creating a suffocating silence in the car. When we arrived, Dr. Abernathy met us outside Sophie's isolation room, her expression grave.

"Her body is rejecting the transplant," she confirmed. "The combined marrow approach initially seemed successful, but her immune system is now attacking the donor cells."

"Treatment options?" Daniel asked, his voice steady though I could see the terror in his eyes.

"We've started high-dose immunosuppressants and steroids," Dr. Abernathy explained. "But given the aggressive rejection, we may need to consider a more radical approach."

"Such as?" I prompted.

"Peripheral blood stem cell donation," she said, looking directly at me. "It would require a different harvesting procedure than bone marrow—one that might overcome the rejection factors we're seeing."

I understood immediately what she was suggesting. PBSC donation required multiple days of injections to stimulate stem cell production, followed by apheresis—a procedure where blood is removed, filtered for stem cells, and returned to the donor's body. It was less invasive than bone marrow harvesting in some ways, but riskier in others, especially for someone who had recently undergone major marrow extraction.

"I'll do it," I said without hesitation.

"Bella," Daniel interjected, "you haven't fully recovered from the bone marrow donation. Your hemoglobin levels are still below normal."

"It doesn't matter," I insisted. "How soon can we start the stimulation protocol?"

Dr. Abernathy hesitated. "Ideally, we'd wait until you're stronger. But given Sophie's deterioration—"

"We start today," I decided. "Now."

Daniel pulled me aside while Dr. Abernathy went to prepare the necessary medications. "This could seriously compromise your health," he said quietly. "There has to be another option."

"There isn't," I replied, watching Sophie through the glass window of her room. She looked so small in the hospital bed, connected to more machines than before, her skin pale as paper. "She's our daughter, Daniel. I won't lose her when I can do something to prevent it."

His expression softened. "At least let me be tested again. Maybe I can do the PBSC donation instead."

"Your cells were part of what triggered this rejection," I reminded him gently. "It has to be me."

The stimulation protocol began that afternoon—injections of granulocyte colony-stimulating factor to mobilize stem cells from my bone marrow into my bloodstream. The side effects hit me harder than expected, likely due to my weakened state. Bone pain radiated through my limbs, and pounding headaches made it difficult to focus.

By the third day, I was staying at the hospital full-time, alternating between receiving injections and sitting with Sophie, who drifted in and out of consciousness as her body battled the rejection.

"You don't look so good," she murmured during one of her lucid periods, her small hand reaching for mine.

"Just tired," I assured her with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm full of bees," she said, her description of the painful inflammation surprisingly accurate. "Is this medicine going to work?"

"I think so," I said, trying to project confidence I didn't entirely feel. "The new cells from me should help your body stop fighting itself."

Sophie studied my face with those perceptive eyes that reminded me so much of Daniel's. "You're giving me more of your special blood."

"Something like that."

"Like how you gave Daddy your special blood when he was sick in college," she continued. "He told me that story."

I smiled, surprised Daniel had shared that with her. "Yes, just like that."

"He said you saved his life even though you didn't know him very well," Sophie whispered, her voice growing weaker. "That's when he started loving you, I think."

Before I could respond to this startling statement, a nurse entered to check Sophie's vitals, and the moment passed. But her words lingered in my mind throughout the night as I tossed restlessly in my hospital bed, my bones aching from the stimulation drugs.

The fifth day brought the apheresis procedure—a process that would take several hours as my blood was continuously drawn, filtered, and returned. Daniel insisted on staying with me, setting up his laptop to work remotely from a chair beside my bed.

"You don't have to babysit me," I told him, wincing as the nurse inserted the large-bore needle into my arm. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," he countered, not looking up from his screen. "You're exhausted, in pain, and putting yourself at risk. Again."

There was an edge to his voice I couldn't quite interpret. "Are you angry with me for doing this?"

He finally met my gaze, his expression complex. "No. Yes. I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm angry that you're so willing to risk yourself without consideration for what it would do to the twins if something happened to you. I'm angry that we're in this position at all. But mostly..." he paused, his voice softening, "mostly I'm terrified of losing either of you."

The honesty in his admission caught me off guard. Before I could respond, Dr. Abernathy entered with the transplant specialist.

"We've reviewed your latest blood work," she said, her expression concerned. "The stimulation protocol has been effective—perhaps too effective. Your white count is extremely elevated."

"Is that dangerous?" Daniel asked immediately.

"It could put Dr. Montgomery at risk for complications," the specialist confirmed. "Ideally, we'd pause the collection, but..."

"But Sophie doesn't have time," I finished. "Continue as planned."

Daniel stood abruptly. "Is there no middle ground here? Some way to reduce the risk?"

"We can adjust the anticoagulant levels during apheresis," Dr. Abernathy suggested. "And monitor more frequently for complications."

"Do it," I ordered, then turned to Daniel. "I'll be fine. This is necessary."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded tersely, returning to his seat as the procedure continued. For the next four hours, I watched my blood flow through the collection machine, the critical stem cells being separated and harvested while the remainder returned to my body. The process was uncomfortable but not painful—at least until the final hour, when severe muscle cramps began to seize my legs and abdomen.

"That's a calcium deficiency from the anticoagulant," the nurse explained, quickly administering a supplement through my IV. "Try to relax through it."

Daniel moved to sit on the edge of my bed, his hands gently massaging my cramping muscles. "Breathe through it," he murmured. "Like this." He demonstrated slow, deep breaths, coaching me through the worst of the spasms.

When the procedure finally ended, I felt utterly depleted. The harvested stem cells were rushed to Sophie's room for immediate transfusion, while I was moved to a recovery area for monitoring.

"You should go be with Sophie," I told Daniel weakly. "She'll need you during the transfusion."

"My mother's with her," he replied, surprising me by staying at my bedside. "I'm where I need to be right now."

I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes again, the room was dimly lit, and Daniel was slumped in the chair beside me, his head resting on the edge of my mattress. The position looked painfully uncomfortable, yet his face in sleep had lost the hard edges of worry, making him appear younger, more vulnerable.

Without thinking, I reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The touch roused him, and he blinked up at me, momentarily disoriented.

"Sorry," I whispered. "You should go home and get some real rest."

Instead of moving away, he captured my hand in his. "Do you remember our wedding night?" he asked unexpectedly.

The question startled me. "Of course."

"I was so focused on the contract, on making sure you couldn't back out," he continued, his voice rough with fatigue. "I never stopped to consider what it meant to actually be married to you."

"It wasn't a real marriage," I reminded him gently.

"No," he agreed. "But it could have been. If I hadn't been so blinded by my single-minded determination to save Sophie."

I didn't know how to respond to this unexpected turn in conversation. "Daniel—"

"I found something today," he interrupted, reaching into his pocket. "While you were undergoing the procedure. I was going through some old files on my laptop, trying to distract myself."

He held out his phone, displaying an audio file. "Listen."

He pressed play, and Victoria's voice emerged from the speaker, artificially distorted to sound like mine: "Only Sophie matters. The twins are just a means to an end."

"The doctored recording," I realized.

"Yes. But look at the metadata." He switched screens to show the file properties. "Created three days after you disappeared with the twins. Victoria fabricated it after you were gone, as insurance in case I ever tried to find you."

"Why would she do that?"

"To convince me you never cared about the twins," Daniel explained. "That searching for you was pointless because you saw them as nothing but medical resources."

"And you believed her," I said softly, not as an accusation but as confirmation of how thoroughly Victoria had manipulated us both.

"I wanted to," he admitted. "It was easier than facing the truth—that I had driven you away with my own ruthlessness. That I had become so obsessed with saving one child that I was willing to exploit the others."

In the dim light, I could see the sheen of tears in his eyes, something I'd never witnessed before.

"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continued quietly. "But I need you to know that I never saw our children as just medical resources. Never. Not even at the beginning."

"Then why did you agree to Victoria's experimental collection procedure?" I asked, the question that had haunted me for three years.

"I didn't," he insisted. "I specifically prohibited any deviation from standard protocol. Victoria and Rodriguez went behind my back, using my general medical authorization for Sophie's treatment as cover for the expanded collection. By the time I discovered what had happened, you were already in recovery."

I wanted to believe him. The evidence he'd shown me over the past weeks supported his claims. And yet...

"You were so focused on saving Sophie," I said softly. "We both were. Maybe we're both guilty of putting her needs above everything else."

"The difference is that you recognized the line that shouldn't be crossed," Daniel replied. "I didn't—not until I lost all of you."

A nurse interrupted us, coming to check my vitals and inform us that Sophie's transfusion was complete. Her initial response seemed positive—temperature already dropping, vital signs stabilizing.

"Go to her," I urged Daniel. "She needs you there when she wakes up."

He hesitated, clearly torn. "Will you be alright?"

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Just tired."

He stood reluctantly but paused before leaving. "Bella, when this is over—when Sophie's stable—we need to talk. Really talk. About the future."

I nodded, too exhausted to contemplate what that conversation might entail. As he reached the door, I called after him: "Daniel?"

He turned back.

"Thank you for staying with me today. It helped."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Always."

After he left, I closed my eyes, thinking of Sophie receiving my stem cells, of Daniel sitting vigil by my bedside, of the twins safely asleep at the mansion under his mother's watchful eye. For the first time in three years, I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like if we could somehow forge a real family from the broken pieces of our past.

I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed with a text from Daniel: "Sophie's awake and asking for you. And I found something in my desk drawer you might want to see when you're stronger."

Attached was a photo of a small microscope slide, carefully labeled and dated three years earlier. Under the magnifying lens was a single strand of hair—my hair—preserved like a precious scientific specimen.

The image blurred as tears filled my eyes. Perhaps there had been something real between us after all, hidden beneath the contracts and conditions and desperate measures. Something that might, with care and honesty, still have a chance to grow.