I donated bl00d to save my boyfriend after his friends told me he had been in a serious ac:cid:ent. As I left the hospital, I heard someone behind a door say, “I can’t believe she fell for it again.” I said nothing, stared at the br:uis:e on my arm, and pulled out my phone. What I uncovered about our three-year relationship turned that donation into revenge number 96.
PART 1
“If you truly love me, you won’t ask how much blood they need, so you’ll donate without another word,” was the last thing Brendan said before a nurse pushed the needle into my arm.
Forty minutes later, I walked out of the blood bank at a private clinic in La Jolla, my legs weak, a cotton ball taped to my arm, convinced I had just done something heroic for the man I loved.
According to his friends, Brendan had been in a catastrophic car crash while testing a sports car on a private track near Bakersfield. They called me in the middle of the night, insisting he urgently needed compatible blood to survive.
I didn’t question them. Brendan had been my boyfriend for three years, and I would have done anything for him.
While looking for the elevator, I saw a woman in scrubs pushing a small medical cooler. The handwritten label on its side immediately caught my attention.
My name was written across it in bold marker: Chloe Bennett.
