Chapter 2

The Kensington Gala was a cathedral of excess—crystal chandeliers dripping light, champagne towers, women in couture and men in power.

I stepped through the gilded doors in a black velvet gown, slit to the thigh, diamonds at my throat. Every head turned.

Not because they knew me.

Because I looked like I owned the room.

And soon enough, I would.

I scanned the crowd with surgical precision. Past the senators, the tech moguls, the socialites air-kissing each other like knives wrapped in silk.

Then I saw her.

Lily.

My daughter.

She was standing near a fountain, tugging at the hem of her stiff little dress, looking lost among the towering adults. Her dark curls—my curls—fell across her forehead. Her wide brown eyes—my mother's eyes—darted around nervously.

She was three years old. Tiny. Fragile. Alone.

My chest cracked open.

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run to her, to scoop her up, to press my face into her hair and never let go.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

Because standing ten feet away, laughing with a cluster of socialites, was Monica Lane.

Tall. Blonde. Wearing a cream Valentino gown and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. On her ring finger sat a diamond the size of a small country.

She wasn't just Alexander's fiancée anymore.

She was playing my daughter's mother.

I watched as Monica turned, noticed Lily pulling at her dress, and snapped her fingers at a nanny without even looking at the child.

"Fix her. She looks messy. Photographers are coming in ten minutes."

The nanny scrambled. Lily flinched.

Something dark and primal coiled inside me.

Then a voice—low, commanding—cut through the noise behind me.

"You're either very brave or very stupid to show up here."

I turned.

And for the first time in three years, I stood face to face with Alexander Kensington.

He was taller than I'd imagined. Sharper. Dark suit, darker eyes—the kind that looked through people, not at them. A jaw cut from marble. An expression that said he'd already decided I was a waste of his time.

He didn't recognize me.

Of course he didn't.

He'd never seen my face. The surrogacy had been anonymous—handled entirely through lawyers and clinics. To him, I was just a contract. A vessel. A nobody.

"Sera Whitmore," he said, rolling my name like it tasted bitter. "The woman buying up my subsidiaries like a vulture circling roadkill."

I smiled. Sweet as arsenic.

"Mr. Kensington. Lovely party. Your daughter is adorable, by the way."

Something flickered in his eyes—suspicion, maybe. Or instinct.

"Stay away from my family," he said quietly. A warning wrapped in velvet.

I held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

Your family? That little girl over there is MY family. And you don't even know it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I whispered.

Then I walked past him, letting my shoulder barely graze his arm, and headed straight toward Lily.