Chapter 1

I carried his baby for nine months, only to watch my husband hand our newborn daughter to another woman in the delivery room. The doctors called her "the real Mrs. Ashford." My name wasn't even on the birth certificate.

I screamed until my throat bled, but the nurses held me down. They said I was "the surrogate" and that I was having a "post-procedure episode." My own husband—Carter Ashford—stood by the door with his arm around a woman I'd never seen before, cradling my daughter like she belonged to them.

"Carter! That's our baby! What are you doing? CARTER!"

He didn't even look at me.

The woman—tall, polished, dripping in diamonds—smiled at me the way someone smiles at a stray dog. "Thank you for your service, sweetheart. You've done a wonderful job. The agency will wire your payment by Friday."

Agency? Payment? I was his wife. We'd been married for two years. I had the ring on my finger and his last name on my driver's license.

"Tell them!" I grabbed the bed rail, trying to pull myself up. "Tell them I'm your wife!"

Carter finally turned. His eyes—the same eyes that had whispered he loved me every night for two years—were completely empty. "Nurse, sedate her. She's delusional. I've never seen this woman before in my life."

The needle went into my arm before I could say another word. The last thing I saw was my daughter disappearing through the door in a stranger's arms.

When I woke up, I was alone. No baby. No husband. No medical records with my name on them.

The hospital told me I had been admitted as "Surrogate #0297" under a private reproductive agency contract. My marriage certificate, my prenatal records, every trace of my identity as Carter's wife—gone.

I called his number. Disconnected.

I went to our apartment. The locks had been changed. Through the window, I could see her—the woman from the delivery room—sitting on my couch, feeding my baby with my bottle, wearing my robe.

I banged on the door until my fists were raw. She opened it just a crack and tilted her head. "Can I help you?"

"That's my baby. That's my home. Where is Carter?"

She laughed softly. "Honey, I don't know what fantasy you've been living in, but Carter and I have been married for five years. This is our daughter, conceived through a legal surrogacy agreement—which you signed. If you don't leave, I'm calling the police."

Five years? Carter and I met three years ago. He told me he'd never been married.

I looked past her shoulder and saw it—a wedding photo on the mantle. Carter and this woman. The date on the frame: six years ago.

My legs gave out. I collapsed in the hallway. The door clicked shut.

Everything I believed about my life was a lie. And somewhere inside that apartment, my newborn daughter was crying for a mother she would never know was real.