That evening, I didn’t shout. I didn’t hurl anything across the room. I didn’t storm into Daniela’s chamber, rip away her sheets, or pour bleach all over Dominic’s clothes still hanging in our closet.
Instead, I slipped back into my room in silence. Like a shadow fading back into its tomb.
I closed the door softly behind me and collapsed onto the cold floorboards.
The tears didn’t come instantly. I was too stunned, too hollow for that kind of release. I simply sat there, my back against the wall, staring at nothing. Their voices replayed inside my skull like a curse. “You belong to me.” “She means nothing.” “Three years.”
Three years.
They had been bound together longer than some marriages lasted. All the while, I lay in his bed, cooking him breakfast, begging heaven for a child with every piece of my soul—while he gave all that devotion, all that intimacy, to her.
Eventually, my trembling hands reached for my phone.
There was only one person I trusted enough to call. Only one who would never sugarcoat the truth.
I pressed dial.
“Lorraine?” Dr. Elira’s voice was thick with sleep, rough at the edges. I had woken her. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
I forced a swallow past the knot in my throat. “I… I need your help.”
“What happened?”
“I need you to run a DNA test on the surrogate. Quietly. Quickly. Please… can you manage that?”
There was a sharp silence on the line. Then she asked gently, “Are you alright?”
“No,” I admitted. “But before I collapse completely, I need to know the truth.”
She didn’t demand explanations. She didn’t press further. Only said, “I’ll reach out to some contacts. Give me a little time.”
By the next morning, she called me back.
“I got access to Daniela’s file.”
I answered from the garden, watering the roses with a steady hand that disguised the storm inside me. Dominic was indoors, cheerfully eating breakfast with her.
My pulse thundered in my ears. “And? What did you discover?”
Her voice lowered, a cautious whisper. “Lorraine… there are no IVF records. No documentation of egg retrieval. No implantation logs. Not even a surrogate agreement under your name. Nothing exists.”
I clutched the stone bench as though it might anchor me. “What does that mean?”
“She was never engaged as your surrogate, G,” Elira murmured, careful but firm. “She isn’t carrying your child. That embryo doesn’t belong to you.”
My mouth went dry.
“She and Dominic… they conceived on their own.”
The world froze.
The breeze halted.
Birdsong cut out.
Even my pulse stopped echoing.
“Lorraine?” Elira called again, worry lacing her tone. “Are you—”
I ended the call. Breathing felt impossible.
Everything inside me had been stripped away.
I didn’t wait for him to come to me.
That night, once Daniela had floated upstairs—after Dominic kissed her cheek, stroked her belly, and whispered “my queen” against her skin—I confronted him in his office.
He glanced up, startled. “You’re still awake?”
I shut the door with a click. “I talked to Elira.”
A flicker of shadow crossed his eyes.
“She reviewed Daniela’s records.”
Dead silence.
“There was no embryo transfer. No hormone cycles. No legal contracts. Nothing at all.”
He exhaled slowly. “So?”
“So you lied to me.”
“I shielded you.”
“No!” My voice trembled, rising. “You deceived me. You let me believe SHE WAS CARRYING MY CHILD!”
His gaze didn’t even flicker. “I needed a Beaumont heir of strength. Your body couldn’t produce one. Hers could.”
The words cut colder than ice. Delivered without remorse.
“You don’t even hear yourself,” I whispered, horrified.
“I did what was necessary.”
“You stole four years of my life. You let me drown in shame, thinking I was defective, that I was failing you.”
His jaw clenched hard. “You were never strong enough to bear a child.”
My palm flew before I could stop it. The crack of the slap echoed like thunder. He didn’t flinch.
“I gave you everything,” I breathed, voice breaking. “My devotion. My trust. My body. My soul. And all you offered back was betrayal.”
He stood tall, expression unreadable. “You have security. Status. You wear the Beaumont name. That alone should satisfy you.”
“It doesn’t.”
He stepped toward me. “You’re emotional. I understand. But let’s not destVictor what we’ve built. The baby is nearly here. We can move forward.”
I stepped back, shaking.
“No more lies. No more pretense. I’m done. I want out.”
His eyes narrowed. “Out?”
“I want a divorce.”
He let out a low, chilling laugh. “You won’t be leaving.”
“You can’t trap me.”
“Oh, I can,” he murmured. “And I will. For your safety, naturally.”
And just like that, the mansion transformed into a gilded prison.
Guards were stationed at the gates. My phone was tapped. Every call traced. The car keys stripped from me. My credit cards frozen. He told the staff I was spiraling, unwell.
“Just until she recovers,” he assured them. “She’s under heavy stress.”
And night after night, he entered my room, pretending nothing had shattered. Pretending we were still husband and wife.
But I said nothing. I didn’t meet his gaze.
The truth was, I had already left.
Only my body remained inside those walls.
My mind, my heart—they were already charting their escape.
And I swore to myself, with every breath I had left…
If he thought I was fragile before, he hadn’t seen the storm yet.
---
Sleep brought no peace. I woke each morning with that heavy stone of grief wedged deep in my chest. The bed felt like ice, untouched for days. Dominic never crossed that threshold anymore. I knew where he was—comforting Daniela, basking in the glow of her prize pregnancy.
The house, once mine, now felt foreign. Like a museum of my past life where I wandered as an intruder. The staff, once warm, now eyed me like glass that might crack without warning. Just yesterday, one of them dared to address her as “Mrs. Beaumont.”
I hadn’t corrected it. What was the point of fighting shadows?
Daniela drifted through those halls as though they had always been hers. She wore my silk robes, drank my imported tea, and carried herself with that smug smile as if the war was already won.
Perhaps it was.
That morning, I found her in the kitchen. She had claimed the brightest patch of sunlight, lounging like a pampered cat. She wore one of my sweaters—stretched tight across her growing belly—and cradled a cup of my imported tea like it was her birthright.
When I entered, she didn’t even flinch. Just raised her eyes lazily, smirk tugging at her lips.
“Did you enjoy the little performance the other night?” she asked.
My heart stumbled. “What are you talking about?”
Her head tilted, mock innocence dripping from her tone. “Me and Dominic. Upstairs. The moans. The headboard slamming. Tell me, Lorraine… you were listening, weren’t you? Pathetic.”
Air deserted my lungs.
