Chapter 2

I changed outfits four times before the black sedan arrived. Not because I wanted to impress Claire's husband, but because I needed armor—something that said I'm not the broke little sister you threw away.

The driver took me through iron gates into a neighborhood where the houses looked like small museums. Manicured hedges. Stone fountains. The kind of silence that only money can buy.

The Ashford residence was a Georgian colonial, white columns framing a mahogany door that probably cost more than my annual rent. I pressed the doorbell with a finger that barely trembled.

The door opened, and there he was.

Dominic Ashford was taller than his photo suggested—six-two at least, with dark hair silvering at the temples and eyes the color of slate after rain. He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and when he smiled, it was practiced, polished, and devastatingly warm.

"You must be Maren." He extended his hand. "I can't tell you what this means to us."

His grip was firm. I held it a beat too long, studying his face for signs of the man who had chosen to buy what his wife's body couldn't provide.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Ashford."

"Dominic, please." He stepped aside. "Come in. Claire's been cooking all afternoon—she wanted everything to be perfect."

The sound of her name in his mouth sent a jolt through me. I followed him through a foyer lined with fresh flowers and into a living room that smelled of rosemary and roasted garlic.

And there she was.

Claire stood at the kitchen island, an apron tied over a cream cashmere sweater, her auburn hair shorter than I remembered but still catching light like it was performing for an audience. She was arranging bruschetta on a slate board with the focused precision of someone who needed everything in her world to be beautiful and controlled.

She looked up when we entered, and her smile was radiant—open and grateful and completely, devastatingly unsuspecting.

"Oh my God, hi!" She rounded the island with her arms already extended. "You're even lovelier than your file photo. I'm Claire."

She hugged me. My sister hugged me, and she had no idea.

Her perfume was different—something expensive and French, replacing the vanilla body spray she'd worn all through high school. But beneath it, she smelled the same. Like home. Like the person who'd once promised she'd never leave me.

"It's wonderful to meet you," I managed, my voice catching on a grief I couldn't explain.

Claire pulled back, her hands on my shoulders, examining me with bright eyes. "Dominic's been driving the agency crazy with questions. You'd think he was the pregnant one."

Dominic laughed from behind me—a rich, easy sound. "I just want to make sure our surrogate is comfortable. This is the most important thing we've ever done."

Our surrogate. The words landed like stones on my chest.

Claire guided me to the dining table, where candles flickered beside cloth napkins and crystal glasses filled with sparkling water. "No wine for either of us," she said with a conspiratorial wink. "Solidarity."

Over dinner, I learned the official story. Claire and Dominic had been trying for five years. Three rounds of IVF. Two miscarriages. Finally, a diagnosis: Claire's uterus couldn't sustain a pregnancy past the first trimester.

"It nearly broke us," Claire said softly, reaching for Dominic's hand. "But then we found the surrogacy program, and everything changed."

She looked at me with such raw gratitude that I wanted to scream. Wanted to grab her shoulders and say, It's me. It's Maren. Your sister. The one you abandoned.

Instead, I smiled and said, "I'm honored to be part of your journey."

Dominic watched me throughout dinner with an attentiveness that felt almost clinical. He asked about my health, my diet, my stress levels, my sleep patterns. Every question was wrapped in concern, but beneath it, I sensed something sharper—a man cataloging variables, managing risk.

"Do you have family nearby?" he asked casually, refilling my water glass.

The question was a grenade with the pin pulled. I looked at Claire, who was slicing bread, oblivious.

"No," I said. "I'm on my own."

Claire glanced up, her expression softening. "Well, not anymore. You're part of our family now, Maren."

The irony was so cruel I almost laughed.

After dessert, Claire excused herself to take a phone call, leaving me alone with Dominic in the living room. He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those slate eyes.

"You seem nervous," he observed.

"First-time surrogate jitters," I deflected.

"There's something else." He paused. "You keep looking at Claire like you're trying to memorize her."

My blood went cold. "She's just... very kind. I wasn't expecting that."

He held my gaze for three seconds too long, then smiled. "She's the best person I know. That's why I'd do anything to give her this baby."

The emphasis on anything lingered in the air between us like a warning.

When the car brought me home that night, I sat on my bathroom floor and stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My stomach was still flat, hiding the secret that connected me to a sister who'd forgotten me and a man whose intensity made the hair on my arms stand up.

I pulled out my phone and searched "Dominic Ashford." The results filled my screen—business profiles, society pages, philanthropy awards. But on page three, I found something else.

A lawsuit. Sealed records. And a name I didn't recognize: Natalie Ashford.

Dominic had been married before.

And his first wife had disappeared.