Chapter 1

Three years of marriage, and my husband let them cut my baby out of me while I was still awake—then told the world I was never pregnant.

The surgical light above me was blinding white.

I was strapped to the operating table in the basement of the Blackwell estate, my wrists bound with leather restraints that smelled of old sweat and disinfectant.

Dr. Voss stood between my open legs, his gloved hands red to the wrist.

I was screaming.

Not from the pain of the cesarean—though the local anesthesia had worn off twenty minutes ago and I could feel every tug, every pull, every wet separation of tissue.

I was screaming because I could hear her.

My daughter.

She was crying.

A thin, reedy wail that pierced through the haze of agony and filled the sterile room with the unmistakable sound of life.

"Give her to me," I begged, my voice shredded. "Please. Let me hold her."

The nurse didn't look at me.

She wrapped the baby in a white blanket and carried her toward the door.

Toward Colette.

My husband's mistress stood in the doorway, immaculate in cream silk, her arms open like a madonna painted by a liar.

She took my daughter.

She cradled her against her chest, and she smiled down at the screaming infant with the serene, possessive expression of a woman accepting a gift she had ordered months ago.

"She's beautiful," Colette murmured. "She has Dominic's jaw."

"No!" I thrashed against the restraints. The leather bit into my wrists, drawing blood. "That's my baby! DOMINIC!"

He was standing in the corner.

My husband.

Dominic Blackwell. CEO of Blackwell Pharmaceuticals. Forbes 30 Under 30. Time Magazine's "Future of Medicine."

The man who had whispered I love you against my pregnant belly just four months ago.

He didn't look at me.

He was signing a document on a clipboard, his Mont Blanc pen scratching against the paper with calm, measured strokes.

"Dominic, please," I sobbed. "She's ours. She's our daughter."

He clicked the pen shut.

He looked up.

His eyes were the color of a frozen lake—pale blue, beautiful, and completely devoid of warmth.

"You were never pregnant, Ivy," he said.

The words hit me like a physical blow.

"What?"

"The medical records show a hysterical pregnancy. Psychosomatic. Dr. Voss has documented the entire episode." He tucked the clipboard under his arm. "Colette carried our child. You were delusional."

"I'm bleeding!" I screamed, yanking at the straps. "Look at me! There's a cut across my stomach! How can you—"

"Self-inflicted," Dr. Voss said smoothly, not looking up from his sutures. "A tragic symptom of her mental deterioration."

The room tilted.

I looked at Dominic, searching his face for a crack, a fissure, anything human.

"You planned this," I whispered. "You married me for the baby."

Dominic straightened his cufflinks.

"I married you because the Blackwell board needed an heir, and Colette's eggs weren't viable," he said, as if explaining a quarterly report. "You were a vessel, Ivy. A healthy, young, genetically suitable vessel."

He walked to Colette and placed his hand on the small of her back.

Together, they looked at the baby.

My baby.

"Sedate her," Dominic said over his shoulder. "And call Pinecrest. I want her committed by morning."

The needle entered my neck before I could scream again.

The last thing I saw was Colette pressing her lips to my daughter's forehead.

The last thing I heard was the click of Dominic's shoes walking away.

The last thing I felt was the cold.

And then—nothing.