Chapter 3

Derek called seventeen times that day. I didn't answer once.

Margaret called eight times. I blocked her number.

By evening, Derek showed up at my door again, this time without flowers, his charm replaced by barely concealed rage.

"Open the door, Mia. We need to talk like adults."

"We have nothing to talk about. I've made my decision."

"You're embarrassing my family. My mother invited fifty people to the engagement dinner next week. Do you have any idea—"

"Cancel it."

Silence. Then, in a voice so low I barely heard it through the door: "You'll regret this."

I smiled. Because I'd already lived through the worst thing he could do to me, and I'd died from it.

"Goodbye, Derek."

His footsteps retreated. But I knew this wasn't over. In my previous life, Derek had been persistent in his pursuit—not because he loved me, but because his family needed a surrogate with a specific genetic profile, and I matched perfectly.

They'd find another way to get to me.

Which meant I needed to move fast.

The next morning, I submitted my application to Blackwell Industries and received an interview invitation within hours. Dr. Marsh's recommendation must have carried weight.

The interview was at Blackwell Tower, a glass-and-steel monument in downtown that I'd only ever seen from the outside.

I dressed in the one professional outfit I owned—a simple black dress and low heels—and arrived fifteen minutes early.

The lobby alone was intimidating. Marble floors, a three-story waterfall wall, people in tailored suits moving with purpose.

A receptionist directed me to the 40th floor.

I was led into a conference room where three interviewers sat—two senior researchers and a woman from HR.

The interview went well. Better than well. My knowledge was three years ahead of where it should be, because I'd spent those years reading every medical journal I could find during sleepless nights in Margaret's house.

"Your understanding of CRISPR applications in oncology is remarkably advanced for someone at your level," said Dr. Patel, the lead interviewer, looking genuinely impressed.

"I've had a lot of time to study," I said. That was technically true.

They told me I'd hear back within a week.

As I left the conference room, I was so focused on my phone that I walked straight into someone in the hallway.

My bag hit the floor. Documents scattered everywhere.

"I'm so sorry—" I began, kneeling to gather my papers.

A hand reached down at the same time, and our fingers touched over the same sheet of paper.

I looked up.

The man was tall—well over six feet—with dark hair pushed back from a face that looked like it had been engineered for magazine covers. Sharp jaw, deep-set gray eyes, and an expression of calm authority that made the air around him feel different.

He was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my apartment's annual rent, and a silver watch that caught the light.

"These are yours," he said, handing me the papers. His voice was low, measured, with a trace of warmth that contradicted the severity of his face.

"Thank you. I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

He studied me for a moment—not rudely, but with an attentiveness that made my cheeks warm.

"You're here for the research position?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

The faintest smile crossed his lips. "Lucky guess." He extended his hand. "Alexander."

My heart stopped.

Alexander Blackwell.

The CEO of the company I'd just interviewed at. The tech mogul from the news segment I'd heard as I lay dying.

The man whose 2 billion dollar acquisition would reshape the medical industry.

And he was standing in front of me, holding my crumpled resume, reading it with interest.

"Mia Cole," he read aloud. "Gene-targeted cancer therapy." He looked up. "I read your published thesis last year. The methodology was unconventional but brilliant."

The CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company had read my thesis.

"I—thank you. That means a lot."

"You'll hear from us soon," he said. Then he handed back my papers, nodded once, and walked away.

I stood in that hallway for a full minute, clutching my documents, trying to remember how to breathe.

That evening, I received a call—not from HR, but from Dr. Patel directly.

"Ms. Cole, I'm pleased to inform you that you've been selected for the position. But there's been a slight change. Mr. Blackwell has personally requested that you be assigned to the Advanced Oncology Research division. It's a higher-level team. The salary is... significantly more than the original posting."

My hands trembled as I wrote down the number.

It was four times what I'd expected.

As I hung up, another call came through from an unknown number.

"Mia." Margaret's voice, sweet as antifreeze. "Sweetheart, I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Why don't you come to dinner tomorrow? Just the three of us. We can sort everything out like family."

I knew exactly what this was. In my previous life, this dinner was where they'd guilt-tripped me into going through with the marriage by threatening to withdraw funding for my mother's medical treatment.

"My mother's treatment," I said. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

A pause. Then Margaret's voice hardened, just barely. "Your mother's surgery is in two weeks, Mia. The hospital requires a guarantor. Derek has already signed as—"

"I'll handle my mother's treatment myself."

"With what money? You're a broke graduate student."

I looked at the offer letter still glowing on my phone screen.

"Things have changed, Margaret. Goodbye."

I hung up, and for the first time in two lifetimes, I felt the ground beneath my feet hold steady.

But as I turned off the lights that night, my phone buzzed one last time.

A text from an unknown number: "I know what you are. I know what they did to you. And I know about the twins."

My blood turned to ice.