The Uber jerked to a stop outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Gates estate on Long Island's Gold Coast. The driver muttered something under his breath and refused to go any further past the security perimeter.
Carissa paid the fare and stepped out. The ocean wind bit through her thin coat, whipping her dark hair across her face. She stared up at the towering stone walls, her stomach twisting into a tight knot. She was walking into a gilded prison.
The gates glided open. Alistair Finch, the estate's head butler, stood waiting in an immaculate tailcoat, two silent maids flanking him. He was a tall, gaunt man with a sharp nose and thinning gray hair combed flat against his skull. His eyes dragged over Carissa's frayed trench coat, his upper lip curling just slightly.
"Get in the cart," Alistair said. His British accent was flawless and coated in ice. He didn't use her name. He didn't say ma'am.
Carissa climbed into the back of the golf cart. As they drove across the sprawling lawns, past sculpted hedges and marble fountains that belonged in a palace, the sheer weight of the Gates family's wealth pressed down on her lungs.
The cart stopped at the main portico. Carissa stepped down. Alistair didn't wait for her. His rigid back dictated she was expected to keep up without complaint. She followed him down a long corridor lined with oil portraits of Gates ancestors, their painted eyes tracking her, the heavy silence pressing against her ears with every step she took on the pristine Italian marble.
They reached the second floor. Carissa stopped outside the nursery door. Before she could push it open, a woman's voice drifted out. Soft. Melodic. Completely fake.
Carissa looked through the crack in the door. A woman sat at the edge of Isadore's bed, holding a children's book. She had honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant low bun, high cheekbones, and a slender figure wrapped in a cream silk dress.
The woman sensed the movement and turned. Imogene Clemons. Guilford's fiancée.
Imogene set the book down. She stood, her heels clicking softly as she walked to the door. She stepped into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut behind her, physically cutting Carissa off from her son.
Imogene looked Carissa up and down. A condescending smile touched her glossy lips. She extended a hand. The massive diamond on her ring finger caught the hallway light, throwing sparks. "I'm Imogene. Isadore's future mother."
Carissa stared at the diamond. A sharp pain pierced her chest, but she kept her hands at her sides. "I want to see my son."
Imogene dropped her hand. She didn't look embarrassed. She looked amused. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a pitying whisper, her perfume cloying and sweet. "Take the money and leave, Carissa. Don't grasp at things that will never belong to you."
Carissa's jaw tightened. "If you weren't so useless, Guilford wouldn't have had to beg the biological mother to step in."
The perfect mask cracked. Imogene's blue eyes went cold. She leaned in close. "You bottom-feeding trash. You're only going to stain the carpets here."
Heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Guilford appeared, dark-suited, his presence swallowing the space instantly. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and a hard jaw. His black hair was swept back from his forehead, and his dark eyes missed nothing.
Imogene's face transformed in a heartbeat. Her eyes welled with tears. She rushed to Guilford, wrapping her slender fingers around his bicep. "Guilford, she's being so hostile to me."
Guilford's brow darkened. His cold eyes bypassed Imogene and slammed into Carissa. "You will follow the rules in this house, Carissa. Or you will leave."
Carissa watched them stand together, the perfect, powerful couple. Her heart squeezed tight. But she lifted her chin, refusing to let a single tear fall.
Guilford reached past her and pushed the nursery door open. "Go look at the boy. Stop causing scenes in the hallway."
Carissa took a deep breath. She ignored Imogene's victorious smirk, walked into the room, and shut the heavy door behind her.
Isadore lay on the massive bed, a ventilator mask covering his pale face. His dark hair was thin and patchy from treatment, his small body fragile under the white sheets. Carissa's tough exterior crumbled. She rushed to the bedside and dropped to her knees.
She took his small, cold hand in hers. Hot tears fell freely, soaking into the pristine white bedsheets. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."
Isadore didn't wake. The only sound was the mechanical hiss of the ventilator. Every rise and fall of his small chest pulled at her raw nerves.
Through the thick wood of the door, she heard the muffled voices of Imogene and Guilford. Imogene was asking him to dinner. Guilford's low voice agreed.
The casual domesticity of their exchange drove into her ears like needles. A brutal reminder that she was nothing but a rented womb.
She sat on the floor for an hour. Finally, a sharp knock from Alistair signaled her time was up.
Carissa stood. Her legs had fallen asleep. She stumbled, gripping the edge of the mattress to keep from falling.
She pressed a soft kiss to Isadore's forehead. When she opened the door and stepped into the empty, luxurious hallway, her eyes were dry. She knew exactly what she had to survive.
