A car accident took my father’s life instantly, and my mother was left in a vegetative state. As the principal dancer of the troupe, I found myself unable to dance anymore.
I attended the funeral confined to a wheelchair. After the mourners had left, a group of thugs abducted me.
They subjected me to horrific abuse inside my father’s funeral hall—and streamed everything live. The footage was sold cheaply and quickly spread across the internet.
The dance troupe immediately terminated my contract. My fiancé, Zech Winters, sent me a cold breakup message and fled the country.
In one night, I lost my father, my love, my career, and my reputation—leaving only my mother, trapped in silence and stillness.
At my lowest point, Zech’s uncle, Alan Winters, appeared.
The reputedly ruthless, cold-hearted head of the Winters family suddenly knelt before my wheelchair and spoke in the gentlest voice I had ever heard: “Nina, let me take care of you.”
For five years of marriage, he treated me like a precious treasure. I thought he was the light after all my darkness—until I found another woman’s name on our son’s birth certificate.
Julia Lawrence.
The daughter of the driver who caused the accident.
I went to confront Alan, but unexpectedly, Zech’s voice echoed nearby.
“I told you, you were too harsh back then. The accident had already ended Nina Ranford’s dancing career. Why did you hire someone to livestream her torture?”
“What do you know?” Alan’s voice turned icy. “She can’t dance, but the company wanted her as a behind-the-scenes coach. Julia wouldn’t tolerate her presence, so I had to destroy her reputation completely.”
My heart shattered, torn to pieces by the cruel truth. My own husband had annihilated my career and dignity in the most merciless way imaginable—just to please his lover.
I stumbled away and made a call. “I accept your invitation. Give me a week,” I said. “But I have one condition.”
...
“I know it sounds extreme, so I’ll marry her and give her the best life possible. She won’t have to appear in public and be cursed, and her mother’s medical bills will be covered. That should be enough compensation.”
The click of a phone ending, Alan’s voice drifting from the ajar door, accompanied by the faint haze of cigarette smoke.
I laughed bitterly, nails digging into my palms.
Five years of being fooled by his hypocritical charity—and I even bore his child!
Zech sneered, “Nice words. You’re just a surrogate to him. You and Julia already have a child—why can’t she have another for me and Julia?”
Alan sounded helpless. “Her body can’t handle another pregnancy.”
“I don’t care!” Zech snapped. “Julia can’t have kids because of her dancing career, and she won’t use a surrogacy agency. Isn’t that why you tricked Nina into this?”
“You’re acting reluctant now. Afraid to let go of Nina? Still attracted to her?”
Alan’s voice froze cold. “Don’t question my feelings for Julia.”
The office fell silent. Even outside the door, I could feel the tension.
I clenched the birth certificate, staring hard at the mother’s name.
Julia.
Slowly, I stood and walked out unsteadily.
Four years ago, just as I was regaining mobility, Alan was diagnosed with a brain tumor and given little time. He worried more about me than himself, kneeling tearfully and begging, “Nina, promise me you’ll never hurt yourself for me.”
When I refused, he smiled bitterly. “It’s all my fault. I can’t be with you forever.”
“If only we had a child. At least he could stay with you when I’m gone...”
Those words sparked new hope, and I decided to have a child for him.
But my body was damaged, and a natural pregnancy was impossible. Artificial insemination risked 50% paralysis.
Alan refused to accept it. Only when I threatened to end my life was our son, Zachary Winters, born.
A month later, a follow-up revealed Alan’s tumor was a misdiagnosis.
There’s nothing better than a false alarm—especially when it gives us new life.
Even if I had to spend two more years in a wheelchair, suffering excruciating pain day and night, I was at peace. I never imagined it was all a lie. Zachary—the child I risked everything to have—was the son of my husband and the daughter of my enemy.
I was just a naive surrogate.
After a long silence, I wiped my tears, took out my phone, and called Pat Sinclair, the youngest director in Kirk Theatre’s history.
“I accept the theatre’s invitation. Give me a week.”
The Kirk Theatre—the world’s most prestigious choreography competition and dream stage for dancers everywhere.
“No problem,” came the silky voice on the other end, a plucked cello string trembling through my ear.
A week was enough to sort out my past—and confront Alan.
I took a deep breath and added, “But I have one condition.”
