Chapter 3

Dominic took me to a private medical suite inside Caine Tower — his corporate headquarters in Midtown.

Not a hospital. Not anywhere Marcus could find me with a phone call.

Dr. Patel, a no-nonsense maternal-fetal specialist, stopped the contractions within an hour. The Misoprostol Monroe had administered was counteracted. My cervix was monitored. The baby's heartbeat — strong, steady, furious — filled the room.

"She's a fighter," Dr. Patel said, smiling faintly.

I couldn't smile back. Not yet.

Dominic waited outside the entire time. Three hours. He didn't leave, didn't take calls. His assistant brought him coffee he didn't drink.

When Dr. Patel finally let him in, he stood at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets, keeping a careful, respectful distance.

"The lawyer has the hospital footage," he said. "Monroe's syringe has been preserved for analysis. Jenny — the nurse — is willing to testify."

I nodded, numb.

"Ava." His voice was careful. "I need to ask you some questions. About your marriage. About what Marcus told you tonight. But only when you're ready."

"Now," I said. "Ask me now. Before I lose my nerve."

So I told him. Everything.

The whirlwind courtship — Marcus Blackwell, thirty-four, CEO of Blackwell Corp, pursuing me, a twenty-six-year-old biomedical researcher at a mid-tier pharmaceutical company. The fairy-tale proposal. The lavish wedding. How grateful I'd felt, how unworthy, how desperately I'd tried to be enough.

The "fertility treatments" that began three months into the marriage. Marcus had insisted. He wanted an heir quickly. The injections I thought were hormone support. The implantation I was told was a routine procedure to "optimize conception."

I'd gotten pregnant immediately. Marcus had wept with joy. Serena Cole, introduced as "an old family friend," had sent flowers.

"The embryo," I said, my voice flat. "He says it was his and Serena's. That I was just a carrier."

Dominic's jaw tightened.

"We'll need a prenatal DNA test to confirm. But Ava — even if the embryo isn't genetically yours, you are the birth mother. In most jurisdictions, the birth mother has legal rights that supersede surrogacy arrangements — especially arrangements obtained through fraud."

"He mentioned Clause 37-B. In the prenup."

"I've already had my legal team pull a copy. The clause refers to intellectual property and creative works produced during the marriage. It was never intended — and would never hold up in court — as a claim to a human child."

"He'll fight."

"Yes."

"He has infinite money."

"So do I."

His voice was matter-of-fact. Not boastful. Just accurate.

I studied him in the dim light of the medical suite. Dominic Caine. Thirty-seven. Self-made. Forbes 30 Under 30 a decade ago, now worth roughly four billion. He'd built Caine Industries from a single AI patent into a defense and biotech empire that made Marcus Blackwell's inherited fortune look like pocket change.

They hated each other. Everyone knew that. A rivalry rooted in a patent dispute five years ago that Marcus had lost spectacularly, costing Blackwell Corp three hundred million dollars.

"He'll say you're doing this to destroy him," I whispered.

"He'll be half right."

I blinked.

Dominic pulled a chair beside my bed and sat, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

"I won't lie to you, Ava. I've wanted to take Blackwell Corp apart for years. Marcus is a predator. Not just in business — in everything. You're not the first woman he's used, but you might be the first one who can help me prove it."

"So I'm useful to you."

"Yes." No hesitation. "But that's not why I came tonight."

"Then why?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because when I heard your voice on that phone, the way it sounded — terrified, but not broken — I knew that if I didn't come, I'd never forgive myself."

I believed him. Against every instinct that Marcus had trained into me — to doubt, to suspect, to feel unworthy of genuine kindness — I believed him.

"There's something else," I said. "Something I haven't told anyone."

He waited.

"Six months ago, I found a file on Marcus's home computer. I wasn't snooping — I was looking for our insurance documents. The file was labeled 'Project Gemini.'"

Dominic's expression sharpened.

"It contained medical records. Dozens of women. Names, ages, blood types, genetic profiles. They were ranked. Scored. Like... like livestock at an auction."

"I was number six."

The silence in the room was absolute.

"I closed the file. I told myself it was a business document I didn't understand. I was seven months pregnant and terrified of what it meant if I looked closer."

"Do you still have access?"

"I memorized the file path. And I know Marcus's passwords. All of them. He thought I was too stupid to be a threat."

Dominic leaned back in his chair, and for the first time, something like a smile — hard, predatory, satisfied — crossed his face.

"Ava Miller Blackwell," he said quietly, "I think you and I are going to do extraordinary things together."

My daughter kicked. Hard.

I placed my hand on my belly.

"Her name is Lily," I said. "And she's mine. No matter whose DNA she carries."

Dominic nodded.

"Then let's make sure of it."

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression darkened.

"What?" I asked.

"Marcus just filed an emergency custody petition." He looked at me. "He's claiming you're mentally unstable and a flight risk."

"The hearing is in forty-eight hours."