Chapter 3

Geneva was beautiful — and suffocating. Dominic's estate sat above Lake Geneva like a fortress disguised as a villa. Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, staff who moved silently and never made eye contact. Within hours of arriving, I had a private suite, a nursery stocked with everything Theo could need, and a security detail that tracked my every movement.

"For your protection," Dominic assured me, his hand warm on my shoulder. I wanted to believe him. I almost did.

But that message haunted me. Project Gemini. I searched for it on the estate's Wi-Fi — nothing. The network was monitored; I could feel it. So I waited until the night staff rotated and used the old phone Dominic hadn't confiscated, connecting to a neighbor's unsecured network.

What I found made my stomach drop.

Project Gemini was a fertility program — one that Dominic had funded privately through a shell company. It matched surrogates with wealthy families, and its client list read like a Forbes directory. That alone wasn't alarming. What was alarming was the clause buried in every surrogate contract: biological material harvested during pregnancy may be retained for future medical use.

My medical records. My blood. My stem cells. Theo's cord blood — which the hospital had collected at birth. All of it, routed to a biotech firm that Dominic co-owned.

I thought of Vivienne — her illness, the one Dominic had vaguely referenced. And then I understood.

I wasn't rescued. I was relocated. Dominic didn't save me from Julian out of kindness. He saved me because he still needed what was inside my son.

The realization hit so hard I had to grip the bathroom sink to stay upright. My reflection stared back at me — gaunt, dark circles carved under my eyes, the body of a woman who'd been used up and hollowed out. First by Julian, who treated me as an incubator. Now by Dominic, who treated me as a specimen.

A knock on my door. "Elara?" Dominic's voice, smooth and concerned. "The pediatrician wants to do Theo's first check-up. Just routine bloodwork."

Bloodwork.

My hands shook as I opened the door, Theo pressed against my chest. Dominic stood there, perfectly composed, a glass of wine in his hand. Behind him, a woman in a white coat held a tray of vials and needles.

"How much blood does a routine check-up require?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

The doctor glanced at Dominic. He didn't blink. "Standard panels. Nothing excessive."

I looked at the tray. There were nine vials. For a four-day-old baby, standard bloodwork required two, maybe three.

"No," I said.

Dominic's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind his eyes. "Elara, it's for his health—"

"I said no." I stepped back and closed the door.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then footsteps retreating, calm and unhurried. No argument. No force. That scared me more than if he'd shouted.

I sank onto the bed, Theo sleeping against me, and scrolled through my old phone with trembling fingers. I had no money, no allies, no legal standing in a foreign country. Julian wanted to take my son. Dominic wanted to harvest my son. And I was trapped between two billionaires who both saw me as nothing.

Then I saw it — a news alert, timestamped thirty minutes ago.

"Tech Mogul Julian Cross Offers $2M Reward for Information on Missing Surrogate and Newborn Son."

Beneath the headline, my face. My name. And the words: "Considered a flight risk. Potentially dangerous."

He'd made me a fugitive.

My phone buzzed. A new message, same unknown number as before:

"There's a third option. But you'll have to be brave. Service entrance, 3 AM. Come alone."

I looked at Theo. His tiny chest rose and fell, peaceful, trusting. He had no idea the world he'd been born into — a world where his blood was currency, his existence a transaction.

3 AM. I had six hours to decide.

I pressed my lips to his forehead and whispered, "I'll burn it all down before I let anyone hurt you."

And I meant every word.