Chapter 3

Morning came grey and cold.

I dressed carefully. Not in the drab, shapeless clothes Roman preferred I wear — "You're staff, Isla, dress accordingly" — but in the one good dress I owned. A deep emerald silk sheath I had bought with my own savings and hidden in the back of the closet.

I looked in the mirror. The woman staring back was thin, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. But the dress reminded me that I had a spine.

I went to the nursery.

Luca was awake, babbling in his crib. He was two years old, with Roman's dark hair and my grey eyes. When he saw me, his face split into a gummy grin.

"Mama!" he squealed, reaching for me.

I picked him up. He smelled of baby powder and warmth. I pressed my nose into his hair and breathed him in, memorizing the scent.

"Mama is going on a trip," I whispered. "But I'm coming back for you. I promise."

"Twip?" He patted my cheek with his chubby hand.

"Yes, baby. A trip."

The nursery door opened. Vivienne walked in.

She was everything I was not. Tall, blonde, curves poured into a red designer dress. She looked at me holding Luca with the expression of someone watching a servant handle fine china.

"Put him down," she said. "The nanny is coming."

"I'm his mother," I said.

"You're his incubator," Vivienne corrected, examining her manicure. "There's a difference. Roman and I discussed it. Luca will call me 'Mama' from now on. It's less confusing for him."

My arms tightened around my son.

Vivienne saw my expression and laughed. "Oh, don't look so tragic. You got your money. Be grateful. Most surrogates don't get a payout this generous."

She plucked Luca from my arms. He whimpered, reaching back for me.

"Mama!"

"I'm Mama now, sweetheart," Vivienne cooed, bouncing him awkwardly. She held him like a handbag — at arm's length, worried about drool on her dress.

I wanted to rip her apart. My fists clenched at my sides.

But I thought about Milan. I thought about four hundred million dollars. I thought about the army of lawyers waiting for me.

"Goodbye, Luca," I said softly.

I walked out of the nursery. Each step away from my son felt like a knife between my ribs.

In the foyer, Roman was waiting. He leaned against the marble console table, scrolling through his phone. He didn't look up.

"The car will take you to the train station," he said. "Your things have been packed."

I looked at the two small suitcases by the door. Three years of my life, reduced to forty pounds of luggage.

"I need to ask you something," I said.

He sighed, annoyed. "What?"

"Did you ever feel anything for me?"

He looked up from his phone. His dark eyes were flat.

"I felt gratitude," he said. "You performed your function adequately. That is all."

Function. Adequately.

"Thank you," I said. "That makes this much easier."

"Makes what easier?"

I smiled. "Leaving."

I picked up my suitcases and walked out the front door.

The autumn air hit my face like a slap. The black town car was waiting.

I didn't get in.

I walked past it, turned the corner, and climbed into a different car — a silver Mercedes with diplomatic plates.

The driver was a middle-aged Italian man in a crisp suit.

"Miss Marchetti," he said, tipping his hat. "Welcome. The jet is fueled and waiting."

"Take me to the airport," I said.

As the car pulled away, I looked back at the Castellano penthouse one last time.

Luca's nursery window was on the third floor. I could see the shadow of Vivienne walking past it.

I'll be back, baby, I thought. And when I come back, I'll be the one giving the orders.