Chapter 1
Nine months pregnant, strapped to a table, no anesthesia—and my husband's mistress was giving the orders.
The overhead light blinded me. Cold metal bit into my wrists where the restraints held me down. My belly, swollen and tight, rose above me like a hill I couldn't see past.
I wasn't supposed to be here. Twenty minutes ago, I'd been in my hospital room, timing contractions, waiting for Derek to show up. He'd promised. Swore on everything he'd be there when the baby came.
Then three nurses I'd never seen walked in. They didn't check my chart. Didn't ask my name.
They wheeled me out of my room and down a service elevator to a floor that wasn't on any hospital map.
Now I was staring at a ring light.
A phone was mounted on a tripod at the foot of the surgical table, the red recording dot blinking steadily. A livestream counter ticked upward in the corner.
1,200 viewers. 1,500. 2,000.
The door swung open. Heels clicked across the tile. Slow. Deliberate.
I knew those heels.
Vivian Cross. Twenty-three. Instagram model. The woman I'd found in my husband's texts three months ago—the texts he swore were nothing.
She wore a silk robe, fresh blowout, full glam makeup. Like she was walking a red carpet, not into a makeshift operating room.
She smiled down at me. Soft. Sweet. A smile you'd give a puppy before you put it down.
"Hi, Elena. You look... rough."
I pulled at the restraints. "What the fuck is going on? Where's my doctor? Where's Derek?"
She tilted her head, studying my belly like it was a package she'd been waiting on.
"Derek's upstairs. Filling out the birth certificate."
My blood went cold.
"He's putting my name on it. Not yours." She leaned in close, lips nearly brushing my ear. "You were always just the incubator, sweetheart."
The chat was already going crazy. I could see it reflected in the window behind her—scrolling text, emojis, hearts pouring in.
[OMG she's actually doing it]
[Queen shit. Take what's yours babe]
[Is this legal?? Hello???]
Vivian straightened up, flipped her hair over one shoulder, and addressed the camera with a thousand-watt smile.
"Hey everyone! So—today's the day. My little miracle is finally coming. And since so many of you followed this journey with me, I wanted you to be here for the birth."
My birth. My baby. My body.
She was streaming this. To thousands of people. Telling them my daughter was hers.
"You're insane," I gasped. "You can't just take my baby—"
"I already did." She didn't even look at me when she said it. Just kept smiling at the phone. "Derek signed the surrogacy agreement six months ago. Backdated. Legally, this baby was never yours."
No. No no no.
I'd never signed anything. I'd never agreed to any surrogacy. This was my baby. Mine and Derek's. Conceived in our bed, in our home, during what I thought was a marriage.
"You're lying."
She pulled a document from her robe pocket. Unfolded it. Held it up to the camera.
My signature. At the bottom. In my handwriting.
I didn't sign that. I know I didn't sign that.
But it looked perfect. Every loop, every slant. Whoever forged it was good.
The contractions were coming faster now, pressure building low and heavy.
Vivian snapped her fingers. A man in scrubs appeared—not my OB. Someone I'd never seen before. He pulled on gloves without looking at my face.
"We're going to do this quick," she said, finally turning back to me. Her eyes were flat, empty. "The less you fight, the less it hurts. Probably."
She paused.
"Actually—no. I told Dr. Park not to bother with the epidural. You won't be needing it."
The scalpel caught the light.
The overhead light blinded me. Cold metal bit into my wrists where the restraints held me down. My belly, swollen and tight, rose above me like a hill I couldn't see past.
I wasn't supposed to be here. Twenty minutes ago, I'd been in my hospital room, timing contractions, waiting for Derek to show up. He'd promised. Swore on everything he'd be there when the baby came.
Then three nurses I'd never seen walked in. They didn't check my chart. Didn't ask my name.
They wheeled me out of my room and down a service elevator to a floor that wasn't on any hospital map.
Now I was staring at a ring light.
A phone was mounted on a tripod at the foot of the surgical table, the red recording dot blinking steadily. A livestream counter ticked upward in the corner.
1,200 viewers. 1,500. 2,000.
The door swung open. Heels clicked across the tile. Slow. Deliberate.
I knew those heels.
Vivian Cross. Twenty-three. Instagram model. The woman I'd found in my husband's texts three months ago—the texts he swore were nothing.
She wore a silk robe, fresh blowout, full glam makeup. Like she was walking a red carpet, not into a makeshift operating room.
She smiled down at me. Soft. Sweet. A smile you'd give a puppy before you put it down.
"Hi, Elena. You look... rough."
I pulled at the restraints. "What the fuck is going on? Where's my doctor? Where's Derek?"
She tilted her head, studying my belly like it was a package she'd been waiting on.
"Derek's upstairs. Filling out the birth certificate."
My blood went cold.
"He's putting my name on it. Not yours." She leaned in close, lips nearly brushing my ear. "You were always just the incubator, sweetheart."
The chat was already going crazy. I could see it reflected in the window behind her—scrolling text, emojis, hearts pouring in.
[OMG she's actually doing it]
[Queen shit. Take what's yours babe]
[Is this legal?? Hello???]
Vivian straightened up, flipped her hair over one shoulder, and addressed the camera with a thousand-watt smile.
"Hey everyone! So—today's the day. My little miracle is finally coming. And since so many of you followed this journey with me, I wanted you to be here for the birth."
My birth. My baby. My body.
She was streaming this. To thousands of people. Telling them my daughter was hers.
"You're insane," I gasped. "You can't just take my baby—"
"I already did." She didn't even look at me when she said it. Just kept smiling at the phone. "Derek signed the surrogacy agreement six months ago. Backdated. Legally, this baby was never yours."
No. No no no.
I'd never signed anything. I'd never agreed to any surrogacy. This was my baby. Mine and Derek's. Conceived in our bed, in our home, during what I thought was a marriage.
"You're lying."
She pulled a document from her robe pocket. Unfolded it. Held it up to the camera.
My signature. At the bottom. In my handwriting.
I didn't sign that. I know I didn't sign that.
But it looked perfect. Every loop, every slant. Whoever forged it was good.
The contractions were coming faster now, pressure building low and heavy.
Vivian snapped her fingers. A man in scrubs appeared—not my OB. Someone I'd never seen before. He pulled on gloves without looking at my face.
"We're going to do this quick," she said, finally turning back to me. Her eyes were flat, empty. "The less you fight, the less it hurts. Probably."
She paused.
"Actually—no. I told Dr. Park not to bother with the epidural. You won't be needing it."
The scalpel caught the light.