An hour later, the room was crowded with the transplant team. The mood was somber.
“We tested Lady Beatrice,” the lead surgeon said, shaking his head. “She’s not a match. And Ms. Moretti is incompatible due to blood type.”
Malcolm stared at the ceiling. “So, I wait for a donor list.”
“You don’t have time for a list,” the surgeon said bluntly. “But there is a solution. You have an identical twin. His genetic markers are a perfect mirror. If William Croft donates, the rejection risk is near zero.”
“No,” Malcolm snapped, the monitor spiking with his heart rate.
“Malcolm, please,” Isabella begged.
“I said no!” Malcolm shouted, his face twisting with a lifetime of resentment. “He had the name. He had the title. He had the mother. I will not take his body parts to survive. I would rather die than owe William Croft my life.”
He glared at the doctors. “If you ask him, I will sue this hospital into the ground. Get out.”