Chapter 3

I didn't run.

The next morning, I sat at the breakfast table in the east wing dining room. It was a long, polished mahogany table set for twelve. I was the only one eating.

The chef had prepared a meal fit for royalty — poached eggs, smoked salmon, fresh fruit, herbal tea calibrated to my exact nutritional needs. A printed schedule sat beside my plate.

6:00 AM — Wake.

6:30 AM — Vitals check with Dr. Hale.

7:00 AM — Breakfast.

8:00 AM — Light exercise (supervised).

10:00 AM — Ultrasound.

12:00 PM — Lunch.

2:00 PM — Rest period.

5:00 PM — Dinner.

7:00 PM — Lights out.

I was a prisoner with a meal plan.

"Good morning, Miss Davis." Dr. Hale appeared, clipboard in hand. He was the same fertility doctor from the clinic — thin, nervous, perpetually adjusting his glasses. "How are you feeling?"

"Nauseous," I said honestly. The morning sickness was brutal. Triplets apparently meant triple the misery.

"Perfectly normal." He took my blood pressure. His hands were shaking. "Mr. Blackwell has requested a progress update by noon. He is... very invested in this pregnancy."

"Invested," I repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Dr. Hale avoided my eyes. "Miss Davis, a word of advice. Don't provoke him. Don't provoke her. Just... carry the babies. Collect your payment. Leave."

"Is that what you told the last surrogate?"

His pen stopped moving. He looked at me over his glasses.

"The last surrogate's name was Molly Chen," he whispered. "She was twenty-six. She was healthy. She was three months along with twins."

"What happened to her?"

"She started asking about the west wing." His voice dropped so low I had to lean in. "She found something. I don't know what. One night, she was here. The next morning, her room was empty. The sheets were changed. Her files were deleted. Damien told the staff she had a medical complication and was transferred to a private facility."

"And you believed that?"

"I believe in staying alive, Miss Davis." He clicked his pen and stood up. "I suggest you do the same."

He left. I stared at my poached eggs and saw Molly Chen's ghost staring back.

At 10 AM, I was escorted to the medical suite for the ultrasound. The room was state-of-the-art — better equipped than most hospitals.

The technician applied the cold gel to my stomach. The monitor flickered.

Three heartbeats filled the room. Strong. Steady. Alive.

"Beautiful," the technician murmured. "All three are developing perfectly. Mr. Blackwell will be very —"

The door opened. Damien walked in.

He didn't announce himself. He simply appeared, like a shadow gaining form. He wore a dark suit, no tie, his collar open. He looked like he hadn't slept.

He stared at the monitor. At the three tiny shapes pulsing on the screen.

Something shifted in his expression. The ice cracked again. For a fraction of a second, his eyes were not the eyes of a billionaire or a murderer. They were the eyes of a man looking at something sacred.

"Leave us," he said to the technician.

She scurried out.

We were alone. The heartbeats echoed between us.

"Do they hurt?" he asked. His voice was different. Quieter.

"What?"

"The pregnancies. The nausea. The —" He stopped. He looked almost uncomfortable.

"It's manageable," I said carefully.

He nodded. He took a step closer to the monitor. His hand rose, hovered near the screen, then dropped.

"My mother died giving birth to me," he said. The words came out like they had been locked away for decades. "Complications. The doctors couldn't save her."

I didn't speak. I didn't breathe.

"I was told surrogacy was the safest option," he continued, his jaw tight. "No emotional attachment. No risk to a partner. Just... science."

"And Isabelle?" I asked.

His face closed like a vault door slamming shut. The ice returned.

"Isabelle is none of your concern," he said coldly. "Focus on the children. That is your only purpose here."

He turned to leave.

"Mr. Blackwell," I called.

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"Molly Chen," I said.

His shoulders went rigid.

"Who?" he asked. His voice was perfectly controlled. Too controlled.

"The surrogate before me. The one who disappeared."

Silence. Five seconds. Ten.

"There was no surrogate before you," he said.

He walked out.

But I saw it. Just before the door closed — his hand was trembling.

That night, at exactly 2 AM, I heard it again. The creak of a floorboard outside my door. The shadow beneath the gap.

This time, I was ready.

I opened the door.

Nobody was there. But on the floor, placed precisely on the threshold, was a photograph.

A woman. Young, dark-haired, smiling. She was standing in front of the Blackwell Estate, one hand on her round, pregnant belly.

On the back, in shaky handwriting:

She's still here. Third floor. West wing. Save her.