Chapter 3

Dominic set me up in a safe apartment across town, stocked with everything I'd need. He was methodical, almost clinical—files organized by date, surveillance footage catalogued, financial records cross-referenced.

On the first night, he laid everything out on the kitchen table. "There have been at least eleven women in the past eight years. Those are only the ones I've confirmed."

Eleven. My stomach turned.

He pointed to a photo of a young woman with dark hair and kind eyes. "This is Surrogate #0201. She was a nursing student. Carter's colleague handled her case—a man named Bryce. The relationship lasted fourteen months. She gave birth to a boy. Three weeks later, she was found in a psychiatric facility. The Ashfords had her committed using forged evaluation documents."

Another photo. A blonde woman, mid-twenties, smiling on a beach. "Surrogate #0215. A kindergarten teacher. She tried to go to the police. The case was dismissed. Justice Langston made a single phone call."

Photo after photo. Woman after woman. Each one alone. Each one targeted because no one would come looking for her.

"Where are they now?" I asked.

"Most have been given new identities and relocated. Part of the Ashfords' cleanup protocol. They pay a settlement through a shell company—just enough to keep the women quiet, not enough to rebuild their lives. The ones who refuse the money..." He didn't finish.

I looked at Lily's photo on the wall. She had Dominic's eyes.

"What do you need me to do?"

"First, we establish that you and Carter were legally married. I have a contact at the county clerk's office. If Carter filed the marriage license—even if he later had it expunged—there'll be a record in the backup system. Government databases are harder to scrub than people think."

"Second, we need your medical records. The real ones. The hospital that delivered your baby is owned by a subsidiary of Ashford Fertility Group, so their records are compromised. But your OB-GYN visits before delivery—those happened at a public clinic. If we can prove you received prenatal care as Carter's wife, it contradicts their surrogacy narrative."

"Third—and this is the hard part—we need someone on the inside."

I frowned. "Inside the company?"

"Inside the family." He hesitated. "Victoria has a younger sister. Her name is Serena Langston. She's been estranged from the family for two years. According to my sources, she left after discovering what the surrogacy program really was. She's the one who anonymously tipped off a journalist last year—but the story was killed before it ran."

"If we can get Serena to testify, combined with your case and my evidence, we'd have enough to bypass her father's influence and go straight to federal court."

"And if we can't get her?"

Dominic's expression hardened. "Then we need a Plan B. And Plan B involves doing something that could put both of us in prison."

I didn't ask what Plan B was. Not yet.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying the moment in the delivery room—my daughter's first cry, the weight of her being lifted from my arms, Carter's empty eyes.

I pulled up Victoria's social media. Her latest post was from that morning: a photo of my daughter in a designer bassinet, surrounded by pink roses. The caption read: Our little miracle. Worth every moment of the wait. #blessed #motherhood

Three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments congratulating her. People calling her an "amazing mom."

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. Then I screenshot every single post she'd ever made about "her" pregnancy journey—a journey she'd fabricated entirely. Every fake bump photo, every staged nursery reveal, every lie.

I saved them all. Evidence. Ammunition. Proof that this woman had been performing motherhood for months before my baby was even born.

At 3 AM, Dominic texted me: Found the marriage record. It exists. They missed the backup server. We have proof.

My hands were shaking as I typed back: Then let's burn them down.