Chapter 3

I had nowhere to go.

My apartment was a studio Theodore's company subsidized. By morning, the locks would be changed. I had $4,200 in savings and a brain tumor the size of a walnut.

I sat on a bench outside the building and called the only person I had left.

"Margot," I said when she picked up. "I need help."

Margot Chen was a legal aid attorney who survived on instant ramen and righteous fury. We'd been roommates in college. She was the only person who knew I'd been a surrogate.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice sharp with instant concern.

"I found out Lily is mine. Biologically mine. There was an embryo mix-up — or a deliberate switch. Vivienne's been hitting her. Theodore fired me. And I'm dying."

Silence.

"Okay," Margot said slowly. "Come over. I'm ordering Thai food."

Two hours later, I was sitting on Margot's threadbare couch, eating pad see ew, while she paced her tiny living room.

"The DNA evidence is the key," she said. "You still have the digital results?"

"On the hospital's patient portal. But Vivienne knows now. She'll be prepared."

Margot stopped pacing. "Selene, I have to be honest with you. Family court cases take months. Sometimes years. You said you have—"

"Six months. Maybe fourteen with treatment."

"Then we can't go through family court. We need Theodore to believe you voluntarily."

I shook my head. "He won't. Vivienne has him completely under her control. He sees what she wants him to see."

Margot sat down across from me, her expression intense. "Then we make him see what she doesn't want him to see."

She opened her laptop. "Tell me everything. From the surrogacy contract to today. Every detail."

I talked for three hours. About the clinic — Vivienne's choice. About the doctor — Vivienne's friend from boarding school. About the surrogacy contract that had an unusual clause: I was forbidden from contacting the child or the family after delivery. No other surrogacy agency required that.

"She knew," Margot said, her eyes narrowing. "She knew the embryo was yours, and she made sure you'd never find out."

"But why?" I asked. "Why use my egg? She could have used her own."

Margot pulled up Vivienne's medical records — she had contacts in places I didn't ask about.

"Because she couldn't," Margot said quietly, turning the screen to face me. "Vivienne Hale was diagnosed with premature ovarian failure at twenty-three. She can't produce viable eggs."

The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.

Vivienne needed a baby to secure Theodore. She couldn't use her own eggs. So she found a surrogate — me — and made sure the clinic used my egg instead of a donor's, because a donor could be traced, could have legal rights.

But a surrogate who signed away everything? A nobody with no money and no connections?

I was the perfect victim.

"She played the long game," I whispered.

"Five years," Margot confirmed. "And she's about to become Lily's legal stepmother in three weeks."

A wave of nausea hit me — whether from the tumor or the horror, I couldn't tell. My hand trembled, and the fork clattered against the plate.

"Hey." Margot grabbed my hand. "We're going to fix this."

"How? Theodore won't see me. Vivienne will have security on alert. And I have no money for a real lawyer."

Margot smiled — a dangerous, feral little smile. "You don't need a lawyer. You need leverage."

She pulled up a name on her laptop. "Dr. James Whitfield. The fertility specialist at the clinic. He performed the implantation. If there was a deliberate embryo swap, he either did it or he knows who did."

"Vivienne's boarding school friend," I said.

"Exactly. And guess what? Dr. Whitfield just had his medical license flagged for an unrelated malpractice complaint. He's under review. He's vulnerable."

She closed the laptop and looked at me. "We pay him a visit. We offer him a choice — confess to the swap and cooperate, or we report him to the medical board with DNA evidence of fraud."

I stared at her. "That's blackmail."

"That's motherhood," she corrected.

I looked at the photo on my phone — the only one I had of Lily, taken at last year's company Christmas party. She was sitting on Theodore's lap, her small face serious, her eyes — my eyes — staring directly at the camera.

I thought of the welt on her cheek. The way she flinched. The way she screamed my name as I was dragged away.

"When do we go?" I asked.

"Tomorrow morning. His office opens at nine."

I nodded. The fear was still there, coiled in my stomach, but something stronger had taken root beside it.

I was dying. I had nothing left to lose.

And everything to fight for.