Chapter 1

My husband sold my eggs to a billionaire, told me my twins were stillborn, and kept the payment to buy his mistress a penthouse.

For three years, I mourned two babies I never held.

For three years, I scrubbed floors in the house my money built — while Sienna Cross slept in my bed and wore my ring.

Today, I found the receipt.

It was tucked inside Derek Voss's old jacket — the one he told me to donate. A crumpled lab invoice from Whitebridge Fertility Clinic, stamped and signed.

Donor: Nora Voss (née Kinley). Procedure: Dual embryo harvest under sedation. Client: REDACTED. Payment received: $2,200,000.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I remembered that day. Derek had told me I needed emergency surgery for ovarian cysts. I'd woken up groggy, aching, and empty. He said the doctors had found complications — that I could never carry children.

I'd cried for weeks. He held me and whispered, "At least you still have me."

Six months later, I was pregnant. He called it a miracle. I believed him.

Then came the stillbirth — or what he called one.

I delivered at 36 weeks. Derek insisted on a private clinic, said the hospital was too crowded. I remembered the agony, the screaming, and then... silence. No crying. No warmth placed on my chest.

"They didn't make it," the nurse had said, avoiding my eyes.

I never saw the bodies.

Now, staring at this receipt, the truth split me open like a blade.

Two million dollars. That was the price of my children.

My legs buckled. I sank to the laundry room floor, clutching the paper so hard it tore at the edges. The washing machine hummed beside me, rattling against the wall — the only sound in a house that had never truly been mine.

"Nora! Where's my coffee?"

Derek's voice echoed from upstairs. Casual. Bored.

I shoved the receipt into my bra and stood on trembling legs.

When I reached the kitchen, Sienna was already there, perched on the counter in a silk robe — my silk robe — scrolling through her phone. She didn't acknowledge me. She never did.

Derek appeared behind her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Babe, we're heading to brunch. Make sure the house is spotless by the time we're back."

I set the coffee down without a word. My silence had always been convenient for them.

But today it wasn't submission.

It was calculation.

I needed to find out who bought my babies. I needed to know if they were alive.

And if they were, God help anyone standing between me and my children.

As they headed for the door, Sienna turned and smirked. "Oh, and Nora? There's vomit on the bathroom floor. I had too much wine last night. Clean it up."

Derek chuckled.

The door clicked shut behind them.

I pulled out the receipt again and read the one detail that mattered most — the clinic's name and address.

Whitebridge Fertility Clinic. Still open. Still operating.

I grabbed my coat and walked out the front door.

For the first time in three years, I wasn't coming back to clean.