Chapter 3

Sandra told me what I needed: a copy of the contract, evidence of coercion or bad faith, and documentation of how I was being treated in the household. "If we can prove they exploited your vulnerability and never intended to honor the spirit of the agreement, we have a strong case."

I left her office with a plan forming in my mind.

Back at the estate, I waited until Victoria left for her weekly charity luncheon—the kind where rich women pretended to care about poor people for three hours—and went to Weston's study.

The door was locked, but I knew where Dolores kept the spare keys. I'd seen her use them when she cleaned. Third drawer of the hallway console, under the linen napkins.

My hands trembled as I unlocked the door. The study was immaculate. Dark wood, leather chairs, the faint smell of whiskey. Weston's laptop sat on the desk, closed.

I didn't touch it. I went straight for the filing cabinet. It was locked too, but the key was in Weston's desk drawer. He was meticulous about his office but careless about hiding things within it. He'd never expected me to come in here. Why would he? I was just the surrogate.

I found the contract in a folder labeled "Domestic Arrangements." Not even my name. Just arrangements.

I photographed every page with my phone, hands shaking. Clause 14 was exactly as Victoria had quoted it: Upon live delivery of the child, full custody transfers to the Ashworth family. The surrogate relinquishes all parental rights.

But Sandra was right. There was no record of independent counsel. No initialing on several pages. And one clause caught my eye that I'd missed before—Clause 9: The surrogate agrees to a postnatal medical evaluation at a facility chosen by the Ashworth family.

A facility they chose. I remembered the public hospital. The understaffed room. The hemorrhaging. They had sent me somewhere I could quietly disappear.

My blood ran cold.

I kept searching. Behind the contract folder, I found another one labeled "W.A. Personal." Inside were bank statements, property deeds, and a prenuptial agreement—not ours. This was between Weston and someone named Genevieve Marchand.

A prenup. Dated two months from now.

Weston was already planning to remarry. Before I'd even given birth, before the ink on our divorce was dry, he had a prenup drafted for another woman.

I photographed everything.

As I slid the cabinet shut, I heard the front door open. Weston's voice carried through the hallway. He was home early.

I locked the study, returned the key, and slipped into the kitchen just as he rounded the corner.

"Were you looking for something?" he asked, loosening his tie.

"A glass of water," I said, holding one up.

He studied me for a moment. Something flickered behind his eyes—not suspicion exactly, but awareness. Like a predator noticing movement in the grass.

"You look different today," he said.

"Must be the pregnancy glow," I replied.

He almost smiled. Almost. Then he walked past me toward his study. I heard the door open and close.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Sandra:

Got your photos. Elara, Clause 9 is a red flag. I've seen this before. Meet me tomorrow. Don't let them schedule any medical appointments for you.

I stared at the message, then deleted it.

That night, I lay in bed with my hands on my belly. In my previous life, I had trusted these people. I had cooked for them, cleaned for them, smiled through every insult because I thought enduring it meant I was earning my place.

They let me bleed to death on a hospital gurney.

Never again.