Chapter 1

The satisfying satisfying satisfying moment I stepped into the private maternity suite my husband had booked—the one he told me was for me—I found another woman lying in the bed, wearing my hospital gown, eating my prenatal meal, while my husband rubbed her swollen belly and whispered, "Don't worry, Sophia. Once the surrogate delivers, I'll get rid of her and we'll raise this baby as ours."

I was the surrogate.

I was also his wife.

And the baby inside me—eight months along—kicked hard, as if it already knew its father was a monster.

My name is Elara Voss. Two years ago, I married Dominic Ashford, the golden heir of Ashford Pharmaceuticals. Everyone said I was the luckiest woman alive. A nobody waitress who caught a billionaire's eye.

What they didn't know was that Dominic had never loved me. He married me because his dying grandmother's will required him to produce an heir with a legally wedded wife before his thirtieth birthday—or lose his entire inheritance.

I was the womb. Nothing more.

But I didn't know that then. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. On our wedding night, he held my face and said, "Elara, you're the only woman I'll ever need."

Six months into our marriage, I got pregnant. He seemed happy. He hired the best doctors, moved me into the estate, and told me to focus on the baby.

What he actually did was isolate me from everyone I knew.

I found out about Sophia Cole three months ago when I saw a charge on his credit card for a diamond bracelet—one I never received. When I asked him about it, he laughed and said it was a gift for a client.

Then the anonymous texts started.

Your husband visits Room 1207 at The Langham every Thursday.

Your husband has been with her for four years.

You were never the wife. You were always the surrogate.

I ignored them. I told myself it was someone trying to destroy my marriage. Dominic was cold sometimes, yes, but he wasn't cruel.

I was so, so wrong.

Now, standing in the doorway of the maternity suite, eight months pregnant, my swollen feet aching from the taxi ride across town, I heard every word.

Sophia saw me first. She didn't scream. She didn't look surprised. She smiled.

"Oh, Dom. Your little breeder is here."

Dominic turned around slowly. There was no guilt in his eyes. No panic. Just irritation—like I was a dog that had wandered out of its kennel.

"Elara, what are you doing here? I told you to stay home and rest."

"You told me this room was reserved for me." My voice was shaking. "For my delivery next month."

"Plans changed." He straightened his cuffs. "Sophia's been having complications. She needs monitoring. You're healthy—you can deliver at the general ward."

The general ward. Like I was a stranger off the street.

Sophia pouted, rubbing her belly—which, I now realized, was also visibly pregnant. "Dom, she's stressing me out. Can you make her leave? My doctor said stress is bad for the baby."

Dominic's eyes hardened as he looked at me. "You heard her. Leave."

My hand instinctively went to my own belly. The baby kicked again—harder this time.

"Dominic, who is she to you?"

He didn't even blink. "She's the woman I love. She's always been the woman I love. You were a contract, Elara. I thought you understood that."

"You never told me that!"

"I shouldn't have had to."

Sophia reached for Dominic's hand, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't be too harsh, Dom. She's carrying your heir, after all. We need her healthy for at least four more weeks."

Four more weeks.

That was all I was worth—four more weeks of use.

I turned and walked out of that room. Behind me, I heard Sophia laugh and whisper, "She's even more pathetic than you described."

And Dominic—my husband—said nothing.

In the elevator, my phone buzzed. Another anonymous text.

Now do you believe me? Check your prenatal vitamins. They're not what you think they are.