Chapter 2

Solène arrived at 6 AM the next morning—no makeup, hair in a bun, carrying three legal binders and a coffee the size of a weapon.

She didn't hug me. She didn't cry. She sat down, opened her laptop, and said, "Walk me through everything. From the proposal to the delivery room. Don't leave out a single detail."

So I did.

I told her how I met Dominic Ashford at a charity gala where I was working coat check. How he'd handed me his jacket and said, "You have the kind of face that ruins men." How I'd laughed because I thought he was joking. He wasn't.

He pursued me like I was an acquisition. Flowers every morning. Cars waiting outside my apartment. Dinners at restaurants that didn't have prices on the menu. I was twenty-two, working two jobs to pay off student loans, and suddenly the most powerful man in the city was telling me I was the only real thing in his world.

We married six months later. His mother hated me from the first handshake.

"She's lovely," Eleanor had said at our engagement dinner, the word dripping with the kind of acid that dissolves bone. "Tell me, Margaux, what does your family do?"

"My mother was a nurse," I said. "She passed when I was sixteen."

"How… resilient of you."

That was the last time Eleanor pretended to be kind.

The prenup was two hundred pages. Dominic's lawyers presented it three days before the wedding. I asked for time. Dominic said, "It's standard, baby. Everyone signs these. It's just protection."

I trusted him. So I signed.

I didn't read Section 14. I didn't read most of it. Because I believed that love was the contract.

Solène looked up from her notes, jaw tight. "Did you have independent legal counsel review the prenup before you signed?"

"No. He said his lawyers would walk me through it."

"His lawyers." She exhaled through her nose. "That's duress. That's a conflict of interest. That's my first crack."

She typed furiously.

"Second—the surrogacy clause. It refers to 'non-Ashford party relinquishing parental rights.' But you're the biological mother. You carried those children. In this state, biological maternity cannot be contractually overridden without a separate, court-approved surrogacy agreement. And there wasn't one."

I blinked. "So the clause—"

"Is potentially unenforceable." She looked at me, eyes sharp. "But Dominic has the best legal team money can buy. They'll fight dirty. We need more."

"More what?"

She closed the laptop and leaned forward. "Evidence. Of everything. His affair. His manipulation. His intent to deceive you from the start. If we can prove this marriage was designed as a surrogacy arrangement disguised as a union—that prenup crumbles."

My phone buzzed. A text from Dominic.

"Vivienne's picking up the twins at noon. Have them ready. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I showed Solène. She read it, then smiled—the kind of smile that made opposing counsel reach for antacids.

"He's moving fast because he's scared," she said. "He knows that clause is weak. He's trying to get custody locked before you lawyer up."

"So what do I do?"

"You stall. You hold those babies close, and you don't let anyone—anyone—take them from this room without a court order."

She stood, gathering her binders.

"And Margaux? One more thing."

"What?"

"Stop crying. Start documenting. Every text. Every voicemail. Every time that woman steps foot near your children."

She walked to the door, then turned back.

"He built a cage for you. But he forgot—cages have doors. And I'm very good with locks."

At noon, Vivienne arrived with two security guards and a nanny she'd apparently already hired.

She walked into my room like she owned it. Because in her mind, she did.

"The car's waiting," she said sweetly, reaching for my daughter's bassinet. "Dominic wants them settled before dinner."

I sat up in bed, still in pain, still stitched and swollen, and said the only word that mattered.

"No."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're not taking my children."

Vivienne tilted her head, amused. "Margaux, darling. The papers are signed. This is happening. Don't embarrass yourself."

"Show me the court order," I said.

She paused.

"The court order," I repeated, louder this time. "Signed by a judge. Granting custody transfer. Show it to me."

She looked at the guards. They looked at each other. No one moved.

"There is no court order," I said. "Because there hasn't been a hearing. Which means those babies stay with their mother until a judge says otherwise."

Vivienne's smile cracked like cheap porcelain.

"Dominic won't like this," she whispered.

"Good," I said. "Tell him I said come get them himself."

She stormed out. Heels stabbing the floor like little knives.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

Dominic.

"You're making a mistake, Margaux." His voice was ice. "I'm trying to do this cleanly. Don't force me to get ugly."

"You handed me divorce papers while I was hemorrhaging," I said, steady as stone. "We passed ugly a long time ago."

He was quiet for three seconds. Then:

"You'll regret this."

I looked at my babies—sleeping, perfect, mine—and said something I should've said three years ago.

"The only thing I regret is believing you were human."

I hung up.

And the war began.