Chapter 2

Elena sold everything she couldn't carry.

The apartment deposit. The secondhand car. Even the silver locket her mother had left her before she died—the only piece of jewelry she'd ever owned.

It got her two plane tickets to New York and one week at a motel in Queens that smelled like cigarette smoke and regret.

Ethan sat on the motel bed, pale but smiling, arranging plastic dinosaurs in a line.

"Mom, are we on vacation?"

She knelt in front of him and straightened the collar of his jacket. "Something like that, baby."

"Is there a zoo here?"

"The biggest one in the country." She kissed his forehead, lingering a second too long. "I'll take you when you're feeling better."

Ethan's smile dimmed slightly. Even at five, he understood what "when you're feeling better" meant. It meant not now. It meant maybe never.

"Okay," he said quietly, and went back to his dinosaurs.

Elena stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and pressed her fist against her mouth until the sob passed.

The next morning, she stood outside Blackwell Tower.

Sixty-two floors of black glass and steel, catching the Manhattan sun like a blade. She had googled the building on the flight over. Lucas Blackwell had built it three years ago—his monument to ambition, the financial press called it.

She walked through the revolving doors in her only blazer—bought at a thrift store in Portland, slightly too big at the shoulders—and approached the front desk.

"I need to see Lucas Blackwell."

The receptionist—blonde, polished, wearing earrings that cost more than Elena's monthly rent—looked her up and down with practiced indifference.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Mr. Blackwell doesn't take walk-ins. You can submit a request through our—"

"Tell him it's about the surrogacy contract from 2019." Elena's voice was steady, but her nails dug into her palms. "Tell him Elena Ashford is here. He'll know the name."

The receptionist blinked, then picked up the phone.

Elena waited. The lobby was all marble and silence—the kind of silence that money buys.

Seven minutes later, a man in a tailored suit appeared from the elevator. Not Lucas. An assistant—mid-thirties, sharp eyes, the kind of man trained to handle problems before they became problems.

"Miss Ashford? I'm Derek Hale, Mr. Blackwell's chief of staff. Please follow me."

He led her to a private elevator that opened with a keycard. They rode in silence to the sixty-second floor.

The doors opened into an office the size of her entire Portland apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline. A mahogany desk sat in the center like a throne.

And behind it sat Lucas Blackwell.

Five years had sharpened him. The boyish edges she remembered from the agency photos were gone. His jaw was harder, his eyes darker. He wore a charcoal suit with no tie, the top button of his shirt undone, and he looked at her the way one might look at a file that had been misfiled.

No recognition. No warmth. Nothing.

"Miss Ashford." His voice was low, unhurried. "I was told you mentioned a contract."

"You don't remember me."

It wasn't a question.

He studied her for a moment. Then something shifted behind his eyes—a flicker, quickly suppressed.

"The surrogate," he said flatly.

The word hit her like a slap. Not Elena. Not even the mother of your child. The surrogate.

She swallowed the anger. She couldn't afford it. Not today.

"I didn't come here to reminisce." She placed a medical folder on his desk. "Your son has leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant. You're the only viable match."

Lucas didn't touch the folder. His expression didn't change.

"I don't have a son."

"Yes, you do." Elena's voice was quiet and lethal. "You paid two hundred thousand dollars for him, then threw him away like garbage when you found a better deal. But biology doesn't care about your convenience, Mr. Blackwell."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lucas leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "The contract clearly stated that upon termination, all parental rights and obligations were nullified. I owe you nothing."

"I'm not asking you to be his father. I'm asking you to save his life."

His eyes finally dropped to the folder. He didn't open it.

"I'll have my legal team review this."

"He doesn't have time for your legal team." Elena stepped forward, her voice breaking despite herself. "He's five years old. He likes dinosaurs and grilled cheese sandwiches and he sleeps with a stuffed rabbit named Captain. He has three months. Maybe less."

For a fraction of a second—so brief she almost missed it—something crossed Lucas Blackwell's face.

Then it was gone.

"Derek will show you out," he said. "You'll hear from my attorneys."

Elena stared at him. The man who had once wanted an heir so badly he'd hired a stranger to carry one. The man who had then discarded that heir without a second thought.

She picked up the folder. "If my son dies because you were too proud to open a file, I will burn your world to the ground. And I won't need a legal team to do it."

She turned and walked out.

Her hands didn't stop shaking until she reached the street.