Chapter 3

By dawn, Elara had dragged herself out of bed, torn stitches and all, and made it to the nursery.

The twins were asleep in their bassinets, tiny fists curled, oblivious to the war being waged over their futures. She reached down and touched the cheek of the smaller one—Theo, she'd named him in her heart. The larger one she called Rory.

"Those names won't stick, you know."

Elara spun around. Violet Ashford stood in the doorway, immaculate in cream cashmere, her auburn hair swept into a low chignon. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. She looked like she belonged here.

"Cillian and I have already chosen names," Violet continued, stepping closer with the ease of someone entering her own home. "Sebastian and Archer. Classic. Strong. Blackwell names."

Elara's hands trembled, but she kept her voice level. "They're my sons. I'll name them whatever I want."

Violet tilted her head, studying Elara with a mixture of pity and amusement. "Sweetheart, they were never yours. You were the oven. I'm the mother."

The words landed like a slap.

Violet's smile didn't waver. "I know this must be hard. Hormones, the pain, all of it. But Dorian explained the arrangement to you, didn't he?"

"No one explained anything. I was lied to."

"You were compensated." Violet's voice hardened slightly. "Five million pounds for two years of your time. Most women in your position would be grateful."

"My position," Elara repeated, tasting bile.

"An orphan with no education, no connections, no future." Violet's eyes were cool, appraising. "The Blackwells gave you the best two years of your life. Designer clothes, a mansion, a husband who treated you like a princess. All we asked in return was two healthy children. I'd say you got the better end of the deal."

Before Elara could respond, Cillian appeared behind Violet, placing a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was possessive, natural—the touch of a man with the woman he truly loved.

He looked at Elara with something resembling guilt, but it was shallow, performative. "Elara, I think we should all sit down and discuss this like adults. Dorian's arranged a meeting this afternoon."

"A meeting to take my children."

"A meeting to discuss what's best for everyone," Cillian corrected.

Elara looked between them—the golden couple, united, powerful, already rewriting the narrative. Then she looked at her sons, sleeping peacefully, unaware that their mother was about to be erased.

"Fine," she said quietly. "This afternoon."

Cillian seemed relieved. Violet's smile returned, triumphant.

Neither of them noticed Elara slip a tiny hospital bracelet—the one with BABY A BLACKWELL printed on it—into her pocket.

She returned to her room and waited.

At noon, a text from an unknown number: "Lobby. Black car. Don't bring your phone—it's tracked."

Kieran.

Elara looked at the hospital phone on her bedside table, then at the door. A Blackwell security guard was stationed outside—"for her protection," Dorian had said.

She walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and climbed out the window.

The black car was waiting. The door opened before she reached it. Inside, a man with sharp cheekbones and darker eyes than she remembered extended his hand.

"You look terrible," Kieran said.

"You look the same," she replied. "Like trouble."

"Get in. We have three hours before they realize you're gone, and I need to show you something that's going to change everything."

He handed her a folder. She opened it, and the color drained from her face.

"Kieran... what is this?"

"That," he said, pulling the car into traffic, "is proof that Cillian Blackwell's firstborn is already alive—a three-year-old girl, hidden in a village in Provence. Violet Ashford is the mother."

Elara stared at the photograph of a dark-haired toddler with Cillian's unmistakable grey eyes.

"They told me Violet couldn't have children."

"She can't carry them to term. She had the girl via surrogate—a different one. A woman who, coincidentally, disappeared six months after giving birth."

The car hummed beneath them. Rain began to fall.

"Disappeared?" Elara whispered.

Kieran's jaw tightened as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

"Elara, you're not the first womb they've borrowed. And the last woman who carried their child hasn't been seen in three years."