Chapter 2

I couldn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the words on page 112 burning behind my eyelids.

Postpartum psychosis. Inadmissible. Sealed.

The baby kicked — hard — as if sensing my panic. I pressed my hand to my stomach and whispered, "I'll get us out. I promise."

But how? The estate was surrounded by twelve-foot walls. Security cameras covered every exit. My phone had been confiscated the day I moved in. The only device I had was a tablet — monitored, filtered, and restricted to pregnancy wellness apps.

I needed allies. I needed information. And I needed to act like nothing had changed.

The next morning, I sat at the breakfast table with a smile on my face when Alexander walked in.

He paused. In four months of living here, I had never once smiled at him.

"You seem better today," he said, pouring his coffee.

"The baby's been kicking a lot. It makes me happy." I touched my belly, performing the role of the docile surrogate. "I was thinking — could I start walking in the garden? The doctor said light exercise would help with the delivery."

He studied me the way a hawk studies a mouse — calculating distance, effort, and whether the prey was worth the chase.

"I'll have the gardener accompany you."

"Thank you, Alexander."

His name tasted like ash in my mouth.

That afternoon, I walked the garden perimeter. The gardener, an older man named Thomas, trailed ten steps behind me. The walls were smooth concrete — unclimbable. The main gate required a keycard and a six-digit code.

But I noticed something. The southeast corner of the garden bordered a service road, hidden behind a row of hedges. A small utility door was embedded in the wall there, rusted and half-covered in ivy.

"What's behind that door?" I asked Thomas casually.

"Maintenance access. Hasn't been opened in years." He shrugged. "Mr. Blackwell had it welded shut after the last renovation."

Welded shut. My heart sank.

But when Thomas turned away, I pushed the ivy aside and looked closer. The welds were corroded. One good kick might break them.

I filed the information away and kept walking.

That evening, Dr. Evelyn Price arrived.

She was a small woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a warm smile — the kind of face you'd trust instinctively. Which made her infinitely more dangerous.

"Hello, Lily. I'm Dr. Price. Alexander asked me to check in on you." She sat beside me on the couch, her clipboard balanced on her knee. "How are you feeling emotionally?"

"Wonderful," I said. "Excited about the baby."

"Any anxiety? Mood swings? Trouble sleeping?"

Every answer she recorded would become evidence. Every symptom I admitted would be twisted into a diagnosis.

"None at all. I've been sleeping beautifully."

She smiled, but something flickered behind her eyes — annoyance, maybe. She'd expected an easy case.

"That's great to hear. I'll visit you weekly, just to make sure everything stays on track."

After she left, I heard her speaking to Alexander in the hallway.

"She's guarded. It may take a few sessions to build enough material for the report."

"You have four months," Alexander replied. "Make it work."

I pressed my back against the bedroom door, breathing hard.

Four months. That was how long I had before they locked me away and stole my baby.

I looked at the tablet on my nightstand. Monitored or not, it was my only window to the outside world.

That night, I discovered something. The pregnancy wellness app had a community forum — and the forum had private messaging. The messages weren't encrypted, but they were buried deep enough in the app that a casual monitor might overlook them.

I created an anonymous profile and typed a single message to a legal aid group I'd found buried in the forum's resource section.

"I'm a surrogate being held against my will. They plan to commit me to a psychiatric facility after the birth to take my baby. I need help. Please."

I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over "Send."

If Alexander's tech team intercepted this, I was finished.

The baby kicked again. I hit send.