Chapter 4: The Switch
I stopped taking Seraphina's "supplements" entirely. Within a week, my hormone levels normalized.
Within two weeks, the test came back positive.
Dominic stared at the result like he'd won the lottery. For the first time since I'd arrived, he almost smiled at me.
"Good," he said. "Don't mess this up."
That was the closest thing to kindness I'd ever received from him. I nearly laughed.
Seraphina's reaction was different. She hugged me in front of Dominic, all warmth and tears of joy. But the second he turned away, her nails dug into my arm hard enough to draw blood.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," she whispered against my ear.
That night, I was monitored by cameras, watched by staff, and locked in my room "for the baby's safety." I had become a prisoner carrying precious cargo.
But prisoners have time to think. And I had years of thinking to finally act on.
I pulled out the burner phone. One message to my lawyer: *Begin Phase One.*
Within twenty-four hours, three shell companies that funneled money from Laurent Medical into Seraphina's personal accounts were flagged for audit.
She wouldn't notice immediately. But the walls were closing in.
At my eight-week checkup, the doctor confirmed a strong heartbeat. Dominic attended personally, standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching the ultrasound screen.
For a split second — just half a breath — I saw something human cross his face. His lips parted slightly. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out.
Then Seraphina called. And whatever warmth had flickered died instantly.
"Yes, sweetheart. Heartbeat's strong. Everything's on track." He left the room mid-appointment.
The doctor looked at me with pity. I looked back with nothing.
That afternoon, I was eating lunch alone in the sunroom when a new bodyguard appeared at the door.
Tall. Broad shoulders. A thin scar running from his left ear to his jaw. He stood at attention like a soldier — but his eyes were anything but blank.
"New security detail," the housekeeper announced. "Mr. Ashford hired extra protection for the pregnancy."
The bodyguard gave me a single, barely perceptible nod.
I recognized him immediately. Callum Reid. Former Laurent family security. The only person from my old life who'd never stopped looking for the real Vivienne.
He'd found me.
I kept my face neutral, my hands steady around my glass of water. But my heart was hammering so hard I was sure the whole room could hear it.
That evening, Callum stood outside my bedroom door. Through the gap, he slipped a folded note.
*I know who you are. I know what they did. Say the word, and I'll get you out tonight.*
I unfolded the note, read it twice, then burned it over a candle.
Not yet. I was eight weeks pregnant with Dominic Ashford's heir. The heir to a fortune that was already mine.
I wasn't leaving. I was taking everything.
But I needed Callum. I needed his loyalty, his connections, and his access. Because Phase Two required someone on the inside.
The next morning, I made sure to stumble near the garden stairs — just enough to catch myself, but dramatic enough to draw attention.
Callum was there in an instant. His hand caught my elbow. Steady. Warm.
Dominic saw it from the terrace. His coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.
"Don't touch her," he said sharply.
Callum released me immediately and stepped back. "Apologies, sir. She nearly fell."
Dominic stared at him — long and hard — then at me. Something ugly passed through his eyes. Possessiveness, though not born from love. From ownership.
"The surrogate is carrying my child. No one touches her. No one."
He said it to Callum. But he was looking at me.
Like I was property. Like my body existed only as a vessel for his legacy.
I lowered my eyes like a good little surrogate. "Yes, Mr. Ashford."
But behind my lashes, the fire was building.
---
Within two weeks, the test came back positive.
Dominic stared at the result like he'd won the lottery. For the first time since I'd arrived, he almost smiled at me.
"Good," he said. "Don't mess this up."
That was the closest thing to kindness I'd ever received from him. I nearly laughed.
Seraphina's reaction was different. She hugged me in front of Dominic, all warmth and tears of joy. But the second he turned away, her nails dug into my arm hard enough to draw blood.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," she whispered against my ear.
That night, I was monitored by cameras, watched by staff, and locked in my room "for the baby's safety." I had become a prisoner carrying precious cargo.
But prisoners have time to think. And I had years of thinking to finally act on.
I pulled out the burner phone. One message to my lawyer: *Begin Phase One.*
Within twenty-four hours, three shell companies that funneled money from Laurent Medical into Seraphina's personal accounts were flagged for audit.
She wouldn't notice immediately. But the walls were closing in.
At my eight-week checkup, the doctor confirmed a strong heartbeat. Dominic attended personally, standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching the ultrasound screen.
For a split second — just half a breath — I saw something human cross his face. His lips parted slightly. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out.
Then Seraphina called. And whatever warmth had flickered died instantly.
"Yes, sweetheart. Heartbeat's strong. Everything's on track." He left the room mid-appointment.
The doctor looked at me with pity. I looked back with nothing.
That afternoon, I was eating lunch alone in the sunroom when a new bodyguard appeared at the door.
Tall. Broad shoulders. A thin scar running from his left ear to his jaw. He stood at attention like a soldier — but his eyes were anything but blank.
"New security detail," the housekeeper announced. "Mr. Ashford hired extra protection for the pregnancy."
The bodyguard gave me a single, barely perceptible nod.
I recognized him immediately. Callum Reid. Former Laurent family security. The only person from my old life who'd never stopped looking for the real Vivienne.
He'd found me.
I kept my face neutral, my hands steady around my glass of water. But my heart was hammering so hard I was sure the whole room could hear it.
That evening, Callum stood outside my bedroom door. Through the gap, he slipped a folded note.
*I know who you are. I know what they did. Say the word, and I'll get you out tonight.*
I unfolded the note, read it twice, then burned it over a candle.
Not yet. I was eight weeks pregnant with Dominic Ashford's heir. The heir to a fortune that was already mine.
I wasn't leaving. I was taking everything.
But I needed Callum. I needed his loyalty, his connections, and his access. Because Phase Two required someone on the inside.
The next morning, I made sure to stumble near the garden stairs — just enough to catch myself, but dramatic enough to draw attention.
Callum was there in an instant. His hand caught my elbow. Steady. Warm.
Dominic saw it from the terrace. His coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.
"Don't touch her," he said sharply.
Callum released me immediately and stepped back. "Apologies, sir. She nearly fell."
Dominic stared at him — long and hard — then at me. Something ugly passed through his eyes. Possessiveness, though not born from love. From ownership.
"The surrogate is carrying my child. No one touches her. No one."
He said it to Callum. But he was looking at me.
Like I was property. Like my body existed only as a vessel for his legacy.
I lowered my eyes like a good little surrogate. "Yes, Mr. Ashford."
But behind my lashes, the fire was building.
---