Chapter 2

Elara Sinclair had grown up with nothing.

Orphaned at seven, raised in a group home in Manchester, she'd learned early that love was a currency she could never afford. When the Blackwell family's attorney approached her two years ago with an offer—marry Cillian Blackwell, receive five million pounds upon divorce—she thought God had finally remembered her.

She didn't know about the surrogacy clause buried in the prenuptial agreement. The lawyer had flipped past it quickly, assuring her it was "standard boilerplate."

She didn't know Cillian had been in love with Violet Ashford since university, or that Violet couldn't carry children due to a medical condition.

She didn't know that Dorian Blackwell had handpicked her from dozens of candidates—not for her character, but for her genetics: tall, healthy, no hereditary diseases, and most importantly, alone in the world. No family to ask questions. No one to fight for her.

What she knew was this: for two years, Cillian had been a perfect husband.

He cooked her breakfast. He rubbed her swollen feet during pregnancy. He read parenting books out loud in bed, practicing funny voices for the stories he'd one day tell their children. When she cried from hormonal surges, he held her without a word, his heartbeat steady against her ear.

And Dorian—stern, formidable Dorian—had softened around her in ways that shocked the household staff. He approved her redecoration of the estate library. He attended her doctor's appointments personally. When a tabloid published a cruel article calling her a "gold-digging nobody," Dorian bought the publication and shut it down within the week.

"No one speaks about my family that way," he'd said.

She had believed every second of it.

Now, lying in a hospital bed with stitches in her abdomen and the taste of betrayal coating her tongue, Elara replayed every memory and saw the performance beneath it.

Her phone buzzed. Instagram. Violet Ashford had posted a photo—a candlelit dinner, her hand resting on a table beside a man's. The caption: "Some things are worth waiting for."

The man's cufflink was engraved with a B.

Blackwell.

Elara's chest tightened. She scrolled further and found comments from mutual acquaintances:

"You two are the most beautiful couple."

"When's the official announcement?"

"She's so lucky."

The official announcement. They were already planning the reveal—Cillian and Violet, together at last, once the inconvenient womb was discarded.

Elara set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.

Then she picked it up again and called the one person from her past she'd never wanted to contact.

"Kieran. It's Elara. I need your help."

The line was silent for three seconds.

"Elara Sinclair. It's been six years." His voice was low, guarded. "Last time we spoke, you told me to never call you again."

"I know. And I meant it then." She swallowed. "But I just gave birth to twins, and their father is planning to take them from me and hand them to another woman."

Another silence, longer this time.

"Who's the father?"

"Cillian Blackwell."

She heard a sharp intake of breath—then a dark, humorless laugh.

"You married into the Blackwell family and you're calling me for help? Elara, those people don't lose. They don't even play fair."

"I know." Her voice cracked for the first time. "That's why I need someone who plays dirty."

The pause that followed felt like a lifetime.

"I'll be there by morning. Don't sign anything. Don't eat anything they give you. And Elara—don't let them see you cry."

The line went dead.

Elara clutched the phone to her chest, her heart hammering. Down the corridor, she could hear Cillian's voice murmuring to someone—soft, intimate, a tone he'd never used with her.

Then Violet's laugh, bright and musical, echoed through the hallway.

They were in the nursery.

Holding her sons.