Chapter 3
I was bleeding out on the table when Derek finally walked in.
He didn't look at me. Walked straight past, went to Vivian, peered down at the baby in her arms.
"She's beautiful," he murmured.
Four years of marriage. Four years of sharing a bed, building a life, planning a future. And he walked right past me bleeding on a surgical table like I was furniture.
"Derek." My voice came out thin, barely a whisper. "Derek, look at me."
He didn't turn.
"Derek, please. I'm your wife. That's our daughter—"
"You were the vessel, Elena." He said it casual, adjusting the baby's blanket. Still not looking. "That's all you ever were. I needed someone healthy, someone with good genetics. You fit the profile."
The profile.
Like I was a broodmare. A catalog order.
The edges of my vision were going dark. I was losing too much blood. The stitches were already soaking through, the gauze turning red.
"I'm going to die if you don't get me help."
He finally glanced over. Assessed me the way you'd assess a car wreck on the highway—curious, detached, already driving past.
"That's the point," Vivian said sweetly. She was nursing my baby. My baby at her chest. "Surrogates die in childbirth all the time. Tragic, really. But it happens."
That's their plan. I die on this table. Vivian keeps the baby. Derek plays the grieving widower who "found love again." Clean and neat and no one ever questions it.
The livestream was still going. 15,000 viewers now. Vivian had turned the camera away from me—pointed it at herself and the baby. The perfect picture of new motherhood.
No one could see me dying three feet away.
But the stream was still live. The comments were still scrolling. And somewhere in that chat, someone was watching who shouldn't have been.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall to the side. The tile floor was cold beneath the table.
Think, Elena. Think.
My real name is Elena Ashford.
My father is Victor Ashford.
And Victor Ashford owns everything from the ports to the penthouses, from the courts to the concrete. Three states answer to him. Six senators owe him their seats.
I left that world when I was eighteen. Told my father I wanted a normal life. Wanted to fall in love like a real person, not be traded like property between powerful families.
He let me go. Set me up with a new identity, a modest apartment, a simple life. And he watched. He always watched.
The only question was—had he seen the stream?
I needed to buy time.
"Vivian."
She ignored me.
"Vivian. The baby needs colostrum. First feeding. If you don't let me nurse her in the first hour, she won't bond properly. You know that, right?"
It was a lie. But Vivian didn't know shit about babies. She'd never held one before today.
She hesitated. Looked at Derek.
Derek shrugged. "Let her. What's she going to do, run? She can barely breathe."
They brought the baby to me. Put her on my chest.
The second her weight settled against me, I broke.
She was so small. So warm. Her little mouth rooted against my skin, searching.
"I've got you," I whispered into her dark hair. "Mama's got you. I won't let them take you."
My daughter. My blood. My reason to survive the next hour.
Because in one hour, either help arrives—
Or I die on this table and she grows up calling Vivian "Mom."
One hour.
I just needed one hour.
He didn't look at me. Walked straight past, went to Vivian, peered down at the baby in her arms.
"She's beautiful," he murmured.
Four years of marriage. Four years of sharing a bed, building a life, planning a future. And he walked right past me bleeding on a surgical table like I was furniture.
"Derek." My voice came out thin, barely a whisper. "Derek, look at me."
He didn't turn.
"Derek, please. I'm your wife. That's our daughter—"
"You were the vessel, Elena." He said it casual, adjusting the baby's blanket. Still not looking. "That's all you ever were. I needed someone healthy, someone with good genetics. You fit the profile."
The profile.
Like I was a broodmare. A catalog order.
The edges of my vision were going dark. I was losing too much blood. The stitches were already soaking through, the gauze turning red.
"I'm going to die if you don't get me help."
He finally glanced over. Assessed me the way you'd assess a car wreck on the highway—curious, detached, already driving past.
"That's the point," Vivian said sweetly. She was nursing my baby. My baby at her chest. "Surrogates die in childbirth all the time. Tragic, really. But it happens."
That's their plan. I die on this table. Vivian keeps the baby. Derek plays the grieving widower who "found love again." Clean and neat and no one ever questions it.
The livestream was still going. 15,000 viewers now. Vivian had turned the camera away from me—pointed it at herself and the baby. The perfect picture of new motherhood.
No one could see me dying three feet away.
But the stream was still live. The comments were still scrolling. And somewhere in that chat, someone was watching who shouldn't have been.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall to the side. The tile floor was cold beneath the table.
Think, Elena. Think.
My real name is Elena Ashford.
My father is Victor Ashford.
And Victor Ashford owns everything from the ports to the penthouses, from the courts to the concrete. Three states answer to him. Six senators owe him their seats.
I left that world when I was eighteen. Told my father I wanted a normal life. Wanted to fall in love like a real person, not be traded like property between powerful families.
He let me go. Set me up with a new identity, a modest apartment, a simple life. And he watched. He always watched.
The only question was—had he seen the stream?
I needed to buy time.
"Vivian."
She ignored me.
"Vivian. The baby needs colostrum. First feeding. If you don't let me nurse her in the first hour, she won't bond properly. You know that, right?"
It was a lie. But Vivian didn't know shit about babies. She'd never held one before today.
She hesitated. Looked at Derek.
Derek shrugged. "Let her. What's she going to do, run? She can barely breathe."
They brought the baby to me. Put her on my chest.
The second her weight settled against me, I broke.
She was so small. So warm. Her little mouth rooted against my skin, searching.
"I've got you," I whispered into her dark hair. "Mama's got you. I won't let them take you."
My daughter. My blood. My reason to survive the next hour.
Because in one hour, either help arrives—
Or I die on this table and she grows up calling Vivian "Mom."
One hour.
I just needed one hour.