Chapter 2

I sat in the clinic parking lot for forty-seven minutes, staring at the ultrasound printout.

Two dots. Two heartbeats. Two fathers.

The doctor had explained it with clinical detachment. Superfetation. Rare but possible. My body had ovulated again after the embryo transfer, and an existing pregnancy — so early it hadn't been detected on the pre-transfer screening — was already developing.

Victor's baby had been hiding.

"You'll need to inform your surrogacy agency," the doctor had said. "The contract specifies a single-embryo pregnancy. This changes things legally."

Legally. As if "legally" was my biggest problem.

I pulled out my phone. The surrogacy contract was saved in my files. I scrolled to the relevant clause with numb fingers.

Section 14.3: In the event of multiple gestations not originating from the contracted embryo transfer, the Carrier must immediately disclose to the Agency. Failure to disclose constitutes breach of contract, resulting in forfeiture of all compensation and potential civil liability for damages up to $2,000,000.

Two million dollars. For a girl who had $83 in her checking account.

I could tell them. I could walk into the agency, hand over the ultrasound, and watch my contract evaporate. No $500,000. No way to pay for my mother's Stage 4 treatment. She'd die on a waiting list in a county hospital while I drowned in lawsuits.

Or.

I could say nothing.

Twins weren't unusual. The agency might not question it. And if the babies came out looking like Ashfords — well, both fathers were Ashfords. Dark hair. Strong bones. The genetics would pass.

Unless someone ordered a DNA test.

My phone rang. The caller ID said: ASHFORD SURROGACY LIAISON.

I answered with a steady voice I didn't feel. "Hello?"

"Miss Priest, this is Helen from the agency. Congratulations on the positive result. We're scheduling your first official prenatal appointment at the Ashford family's private medical suite. Dr. Chandra will be overseeing your care going forward."

Private medical suite. Ashford's own doctors. They'd monitor every cell in my body.

"When?" I asked.

"Tomorrow. Ten a.m. A car will pick you up."

"Will the client be there?"

"Mr. Ashford prefers to remain uninvolved during the gestational period. You will not meet him."

Relief flooded me. Then dread replaced it. "Uninvolved" now still meant "uninvolved" later — unless it didn't.

"One more thing," Helen said. "Per the contract, you'll be relocating to the Ashford guest residence for the duration of the pregnancy. It's standard protocol for high-value surrogacies. Full staff, private chef, round-the-clock care."

"I have to live there?"

"It's in Section 7. You signed it, Miss Priest."

I had signed it at 2 a.m. in my mother's hospital room, listening to the beeping of her heart monitor, not reading a single word past the payment amount.

"I'll be ready," I said.

I hung up. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel.

Living in Dominic Ashford's house. Carrying his brother's secret baby alongside his contracted heir. Seeing the empire that had crushed me, every single day, while pretending to be nothing but a grateful womb.

I drove to the hospital. Mom was asleep, her face gaunt against the pillow. The IV drip was running low. A notice was taped to the wall: Payment overdue. Service reduction effective Friday.

I peeled the notice off the wall and crumpled it.

"I'm going to fix this, Mom," I whispered. "I just have to be smart."

I kissed her forehead and left.

That night, I packed a single suitcase. I didn't own much. Two years of unemployment had stripped me down to essentials.

At the bottom of my closet, I found the cardboard box from the day I was fired. Inside were my original Meridian Tower blueprints — the hand-drawn drafts, dated and signed, that proved the designs were mine.

I held them for a long moment.

Then I rolled them up, slid them into a poster tube, and packed them in my suitcase.

Insurance. Just in case.

The next morning, a black town car arrived at 9:45 a.m.

The driver opened the door without a word. We drove north out of the city, past the suburbs, into the green hills of Westchester County.

The Ashford estate appeared through a canopy of old oaks. It wasn't a house. It was a monument. Stone and glass. Three stories. A circular driveway with a fountain that probably cost more than my mother's entire medical debt.

A woman in a grey suit met me at the door. Helen. Mid-fifties, sharp eyes, clipboard.

"Welcome, Miss Priest. Your suite is on the second floor. The kitchen operates from six a.m. to ten p.m. You have full access to the grounds, the library, and the garden. The east wing and the third floor are private — Mr. Ashford's personal quarters. Off-limits."

"Understood."

She led me through the foyer. Marble floors. A chandelier the size of my old apartment.

As we passed a hallway lined with portraits, I stopped.

Two faces stared down at me from gilded frames.

Dominic. Cold grey eyes. No smile.

And beside him — Victor. The same face, softer, with a smirk that made my stomach turn.

In the painting, Victor's eyes were brown. Not green.

Green contacts. The hotel. "Evan."

He'd disguised himself to seduce me the same night he'd stolen my career. It wasn't a drunken coincidence. It was calculated.

"Miss Priest?" Helen called from ahead. "Your suite."

I tore my eyes from the portrait.

I followed her upstairs, my suitcase wheels clicking on marble, Victor's painted smirk burning into my back like a brand.