Chapter 3

The suite was bigger than any apartment I'd ever rented. King bed, bay windows overlooking a manicured garden, a bathroom with heated floors.

A prison made of silk.

I unpacked methodically, hiding the poster tube with my blueprints inside the empty compartment of a decorative ottoman. If anyone searched my suitcase, they'd find nothing. But the ottoman — no one looks inside furniture.

My first prenatal appointment was at 2 p.m. in the estate's private medical wing.

Dr. Chandra was a petite woman with kind eyes and terrifyingly advanced equipment. The ultrasound machine alone looked like it belonged in a space station.

"Lie back, please."

The gel was cold on my stomach. I watched the screen, my heart hammering.

Two dots appeared. Two fluttering heartbeats.

"Twins," Dr. Chandra confirmed, smiling. "Both healthy. Strong heartbeats."

I held my breath.

"Interesting," she murmured, adjusting the wand. "There's a slight size discrepancy. One embryo appears marginally more developed than the other."

My fingers gripped the table edge.

"Is that... normal?" I asked carefully.

"With IVF twins, it can happen. One implants slightly earlier, gets a head start. Nothing concerning." She printed the images and made notes. "I'll send the full report to Mr. Ashford's office."

The report. If she measured the gestational ages precisely — if she noted the discrepancy in weeks rather than days — someone might ask questions.

"Dr. Chandra," I said, sitting up. "The contract mentions privacy protections for the carrier. Does that include medical details?"

She looked at me over her glasses. "Mr. Ashford receives summary reports. Viability, health status, milestones. He does not receive raw data unless there's a complication."

"And this size difference — that's not a complication?"

"No. It's a variation."

I exhaled slowly. Safe. For now.

After the appointment, I walked the grounds. The garden was absurdly beautiful — roses, lavender, a stone path leading to a greenhouse.

I was standing by the fountain when I heard footsteps on the gravel behind me.

"You must be the surrogate."

The voice was silk over a knife.

I turned.

Victor Ashford was leaning against a column, arms crossed, wearing a cashmere sweater that cost more than my car. His hair was darker than I remembered. His eyes were brown — his real color.

He looked at me the way a cat looks at a mouse it's already caught.

"I'm Nora," I said. My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that.

"I know who you are," he said. He pushed off the column and walked toward me, hands in his pockets. "Nora Priest. Former junior architect. Fired for... what was it? Insubordination?"

He stopped three feet away. Close enough for me to smell his cologne. It was the same one from the hotel.

My stomach clenched.

"I'm just here to fulfill my contract," I said.

"Of course you are." He smiled. It was the smile he'd worn as "Evan." Warm. Disarming. Fake. "My brother has very specific standards for his heir. Genetic screening, psychological profiling, health optimization. He chose you because you're healthy, young, and..." His eyes traveled down my body. "...uncomplicated."

The word landed like a slap.

"I'll stay out of your way," I said, turning to leave.

"Oh, don't worry about that." His voice followed me. "I live here too, Nora. East wing. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."

I kept walking. I didn't look back.

But my hands were shaking. He didn't recognize me from the hotel. The vodka, the tears, the dim lighting — he'd forgotten my face.

He remembered my name from the office. He remembered firing me. But the girl in his bed? She was nobody to him.

Good. That was good. As long as he didn't remember, I was safe.

I made it to my suite, closed the door, and pressed my back against it.

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Welcome to the family, Miss Priest. Reminder: per Section 9.2 of your contract, all personal relationships must be disclosed to the Agency. Any undisclosed prior connection to the Ashford family constitutes grounds for immediate termination and legal action.

— Helen, Ashford Surrogacy Liaison

It was a standard reminder. Routine. She sent it to every surrogate.

But the words burned through my eyes like acid.

Any undisclosed prior connection to the Ashford family.

I had two.

I set the phone down, walked to the bathroom, and threw up.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman standing at the edge of a cliff. One wrong step — one blood test, one ultrasound anomaly, one flash of recognition in Victor's brown eyes — and I'd lose everything.

The money. My mother's life. My freedom.

And the baby — Victor's baby — growing silently inside me beside its half-sibling, a secret with a heartbeat.

I pressed my hand to my stomach.

"I will protect you," I whispered. "Both of you. No matter what it costs me."

A knock on the door made me jump.

"Miss Priest?" A maid's voice. "Mr. Ashford requests your presence at dinner. Eight o'clock. The main dining room."

Which Mr. Ashford?

"I'll be there," I said.

I opened my suitcase and pulled out the only nice dress I owned — a simple black sheath.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Pale. Thin. Terrified.

I straightened my spine.

Three years ago, they took everything from me and I crumbled. I cried on a sidewalk with a cardboard box. I drank until a stranger's hands felt like comfort.

Not this time.

This time, I had their secrets growing inside me. And secrets, in the right hands, are worth more than $500,000.

I zipped the dress and walked out the door.