Chapter 2

I told myself I'd misheard.

The morphine. The exhaustion. The trauma of delivery. My mind was playing tricks, manufacturing nightmares from hospital sounds and paranoid fragments.

Claire was his sister. His sister.

I repeated it like a prayer for three days while my body tried to heal and my arms ached with the phantom weight of babies I wasn't allowed to hold.

Claire brought the twins to visit once, on the second day.

She stood in the doorway, a baby in each arm, glowing like a Renaissance Madonna. She'd had her hair done. Fresh highlights. A cream cashmere wrap draped artfully over her shoulders.

She looked like a woman who had just given birth in a magazine editorial.

"They're perfect, Sarah," she breathed, her eyes shining. "Lily and James. I named them last night. I hope you don't mind."

I minded.

I minded so much that something behind my sternum cracked, a sound only I could hear.

I had names. I'd whispered them to my belly for months, late at night, when Nathan was working and the house was dark.

Rosie. Theo.

"Can I hold them?" I asked, reaching out my arms.

Claire hesitated. A micro-expression — annoyance? — flickered across her face before the beatific smile returned.

"Of course! But just for a minute. Their pediatrician says too much stimulation—"

"They're three days old, Claire. I'm their biological mother. Holding them isn't stimulation."

The room went cold.

Claire's smile didn't waver, but her eyes — her pale, ice-chip eyes — sharpened.

"Of course you are," she said softly. "And I'm so grateful. We all are."

She placed Lily in my arms. The baby was warm, impossibly small, smelling of powder and new skin. She yawned, her tiny fist curling around my finger.

My milk let down instantly, soaking through my hospital gown. A primal, biological response I couldn't control.

Claire watched, her expression unreadable.

"Oh," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "That must be uncomfortable. Should I call the nurse to bring you a pump?"

Not to feed my daughter. To pump. Like livestock.

She took Lily back after exactly ninety seconds. I counted.

James, she didn't offer at all.

"He's fussy today," she said, already turning to leave. "Better not risk it."

The door closed. My arms were empty. My gown was soaked with milk and tears.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

At 2 AM, I disconnected my IV, gripped the bed rail, and hauled myself upright. The pain was blinding — my abdomen screaming, my spine sending electric shocks down both legs.

I didn't care.

I shuffled to the door, gripping the wall for support, and made my way down the corridor toward the nursery.

I just needed to see them. Watch them breathe. Know they were real.

The nursery window was dark. I pressed my face to the glass.

Empty. Both bassinets, empty.

Panic clawed at my throat.

I pushed open the door, my bare feet cold on the linoleum.

A nurse looked up, startled.

"Mrs. Blackwood? You shouldn't be out of bed—"

"Where are my babies?"

"Ms. Blackwood — Claire — took them home this afternoon. Your husband signed the discharge papers."

The floor tilted.

"He... what? They're premature. They're supposed to stay for observation—"

"Dr. Whitfield cleared them. Ms. Blackwood arranged a private pediatric nurse at her residence. Everything was approved."

Approved. By everyone except me.

I called Nathan. It went to voicemail.

I called again. Voicemail.

Twelve times. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail.

At 3 AM, a text:

"Stop calling. They're fine. Claire has everything under control. Focus on recovery. We'll talk when you're discharged."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Then I called Claire.

She answered on the first ring, her voice syrupy with false concern.

"Sarah! You should be sleeping, darling. The babies are wonderful. Lily just had the cutest little—"

"Bring them back."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"Bring them back to the hospital. Now. They were discharged without my consent."

A long pause. Then Claire's voice changed. The sweetness evaporated, replaced by something flat. Something real.

"Your consent wasn't required, Sarah. Nathan has full legal authority. And the surrogacy agreement—"

"I haven't signed the relinquishment."

Another pause. Longer.

"Nathan said you would. He said it was done."

"He lied."

I heard her breathing. Controlled. Measured.

Then: "I think you need rest, Sarah. You're confused. The medication—"

"I am not confused. I am their mother. And if you don't bring them back, I will call the police."

Claire laughed. A small, delicate, terrifying sound.

"Oh, Sarah. You really don't understand what's happening, do you?"

She hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Nathan walked into my hospital room.

He wasn't alone.

Two men in suits flanked him. One carried a clipboard. The other, a badge.

"Mrs. Blackwood," the man with the badge said, his voice professionally neutral, "we've received a report of erratic and potentially dangerous behavior. We're here to conduct a psychiatric evaluation."

I looked at Nathan.

He wouldn't meet my eyes.