Chapter 3

On the fifth day after my death, something changed.

Dominic was in his office, reviewing security footage from every hospital camera, every street corner, every gas station within fifty miles — hunting for a ghost who would never appear.

His Beta, Marcus, walked in with a file. "Alpha, the police precinct called. They found an unidentified woman's body behind Mercy General — the same hospital where the surrogate delivered."

Dominic didn't even look up. "And?"

"She had a fresh C-section wound."

Dominic's hand stopped moving. Slowly, he raised his head.

"When was she found?"

"The same night your daughter was born."

The room went silent. I watched the gears turn behind Dominic's eyes — the forensic logic he was famous for, the razor-sharp mind that had built a pharmaceutical empire from nothing.

But Vivian was faster.

His phone rang. Her voice, breathless and sweet, flooded through the speaker. "Dominic, Aurora won't stop crying. I think she needs her daddy. Can you come home?"

In the background, I could hear my daughter wailing. That sharp, desperate cry that I knew meant she was hungry — not for milk, but for warmth. For the heartbeat she'd spent nine months memorizing.

Mine.

"I'll be right there." Dominic hung up and stood, grabbing his coat.

Marcus stared at him. "Alpha, the body at the morgue — shouldn't we at least check—"

"It's probably a coincidence. Rogues die every day." Dominic's voice was clipped, dismissive. "The surrogate is alive. She took my daughter and ran. That corpse is someone else's problem."

Marcus hesitated but said nothing more.

As Dominic left, I stayed behind, hovering near the file Marcus had placed on the desk.

Inside was a photo of my body. Face intact but drained of color. Eyes closed. Lips slightly parted, as if I'd been trying to say something when I died.

I had been.

I'd been trying to say her name.

Luna.

The file also contained a note from the coroner: Victim showed signs of forced surgical delivery. Baby was removed while patient was still alive. Cause of death: blood loss due to unsutured incision. Time of death estimated within one hour post-delivery.

They had cut my baby out of me while I was conscious, and left me to bleed to death.

I remembered every second of it.

Vivian's face above me, calm and methodical. The nurse beside her, hands shaking. The searing pain as the scalpel dragged across my abdomen without anesthesia.

"Can't risk putting her under," Vivian had told the nurse. "Anesthesia might affect the baby's health."

She hadn't cared about my health. She'd never planned for me to survive the delivery.

I'd screamed until my voice broke, and then I'd heard it — my daughter's first cry. Strong. Piercing. Alive.

Vivian had scooped her up without even glancing at me. "Perfect. She's perfect."

I'd reached for my baby with trembling hands, blood pooling beneath me, my vision going dark.

"Please," I'd whispered. "Let me hold her. Just once."

Vivian had looked at me then. Really looked at me. And she'd smiled.

"The contract says no contact, remember?"

Then she'd walked out, carrying my daughter, and closed the door behind her. The nurse had followed, sobbing quietly.

No one came back.

I bled out on that table, alone, reaching for a door that would never open.

And now, the only clue to what had really happened sat in a file on Dominic's desk — a file he'd dismissed without a second thought.

Because in his mind, I was the villain.

And Vivian was the grieving mother.

Marcus lingered in the office, staring at the file. He opened it again, reading the coroner's notes more carefully. His brow furrowed.

"Forced surgical delivery," he muttered. "At Mercy General. The same night…"

He picked up his phone and dialed the morgue.

"I need to see the body."