Hours passed in the pitch-black underground wine cellar.

I was shivering so violently I could barely feel my own hands.

Then, the heavy iron latch clicked.

David stood in the doorway.

"The doctors just finished Amber’s surgery," he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "The glass shredded her insides. They had to remove her uterus. She can never carry a child."

He stepped closer, his polished leather shoes stopping inches from my frozen, bare feet.

"You took her future," David sneered. "So you are going to give it back."

"What do you want?" I whispered.

"You will act as our surrogate," he demanded coldly. "You will carry my child for Amber. It is the only way you will ever repay your debt to us. If you refuse, I will keep you locked in this freezer until they carry you out in a body bag."

It was the ultimate humiliation.

Amber didn't just want to steal my husband and my home. She wanted to turn me into her personal incubator.

But there was something David didn't know.

While the nurses were changing my bandages at the hospital, Dominic had sent a file to my encrypted phone. It was Amber’s real medical history.

Amber was never pregnant. And she certainly didn't have a hysterectomy today. The glass cuts were superficial.

She was faking the tragedy to trap David completely, and to torture me.

And David, blinded by his arrogant savior complex, believed every word she said.

I didn't expose her lie.

Instead, I lowered my eyes, playing the broken, defeated wife perfectly.

"Fine," I choked out, my voice trembling. "I'll do it. Just... let me out."

"Sign the restitution contract," he ordered. "Now."

My hands shook as I reached into the deep inner pocket of my coat.

When I had called Dominic from the hospital, I hadn't just asked for an extraction. I had asked him to prepare the documents. I had folded them into my coat before I rushed to the estate.

I pulled the thick stack of papers out.

The cover page clearly read: Surrogacy and Restitution Agreement.

I handed it to him, along with a sleek silver pen—the very pen my father had gifted him on our wedding day.

Just as David took the papers, his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out. The caller ID flashed Amber's name.

"Yes, darling, I'm dealing with it now," David said, his tone instantly shifting to a sickeningly sweet coo. "I'm heading to the charity gala in ten minutes. Don't cry, I've handled her."

Annoyed by the inconvenience of standing in the freezing cellar, David didn't even bother to flip past the cover page.

With his phone pressed to his ear, David blindly scrawled his signature on the bottom line of the final page.

He tossed the papers back at me. They scattered across the freezing stone floor.

"You have one hour to pack your things and move into the servant's quarters," David said without looking back. "If you try to run, my men will break your legs."

He turned and walked up the stairs, slamming the cellar door behind him.

The moment his footsteps faded, my violent shivering stopped.

I calmly gathered the scattered papers from the floor.

I brushed the dirt off the signature line.

I pushed the heavy cellar door open. The bodyguards in the hall were gone, likely escorting David to his gala.

I walked out the back entrance of the estate, stepping into the cool night air.

A sleek, black town car was already idling in the shadows of the driveway.

Dominic stepped out, opening the back door for me. He handed me a warm cashmere blanket and a fresh cup of hot coffee.

"Are the papers signed?" Dominic asked, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter.

"Every single one," I replied, sliding into the leather seat.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. I popped the SIM card out, snapped it in half, and dropped the pieces onto the wet gravel.

"Take me to the airport," I said.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking up the steps of a private jet.

The engines roared to life, ready to carry me far away from this toxic city and the man who thought he had destroyed me.

I sat in the plush leather seat, sipping my coffee as the plane ascended into the night sky.

I looked down at the glittering city lights below.

Suddenly, my new, encrypted phone buzzed on the armrest.

A message from the PI lit up the screen.

[The medical file has been delivered to Eleanor. Here is the live feed of the gala for your viewing pleasure.]

I tapped the link.

The screen buffered for a second before filling with the grand ballroom of the Crestfall Hotel.

David was standing at the podium, smiling for the cameras, thinking he had finally put me in my place.

The camera flashes were blinding. A relentless, flashing white wall of light. Amber clung to my arm. She wore a pale silk gown.

"We're so sorry for your loss, David," a board member whispered. He squeezed my shoulder as we walked past the ice sculptures.

"Thank you, Richard," I muttered.

Amber leaned into my side. She soaked up the pity of the city’s elite, playing the brave, grieving victim flawlessly.

But I felt sick.

A gnawing, sickening unease twisted in my gut.

I pulled my phone from my tuxedo pocket. Again.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls.

My guards were supposed to message me the second Scarlet broke.

I wanted her to scream. I wanted her to bang her fists against the heavy iron door of the wine cellar. I wanted her to beg for mercy.

But there was only dead silence.

I couldn't stop thinking about her face in the freezing dark. She hadn't cried. She hadn't fought back.

She had just signed the papers. Her eyes were dead. Her hands were perfectly calm.

It made my skin crawl.

"David?" Amber whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "It's time."

I swallowed hard. I detached her hand.

I walked up the carpeted steps to the podium.

This was it.

I was going to publicly announce my separation from Scarlet. I was going to declare my absolute loyalty to Amber.

I gripped the edges of the podium. The microphone hummed. I looked out at the sea of reporters. Their lenses focused entirely on me.

My chest tightened. An invisible vice gripped my ribs.

Scarlet is a monster, I reminded myself. She pushed Amber. She killed your child.

I opened my mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I started. My voice sounded hollow.

The room fell silent.

"Tonight, I stand before you to announce a separation. My wife, Scarlet..."

I tried to force the words out. But the words turned to ash in my mouth. My tongue felt like lead.

Before I could speak another syllable, a deafening crash echoed through the room.

The heavy, gold-leafed double doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open.

Every head in the room snapped around.

My mother, Eleanor, stood in the doorway. She wore a sharp, blood-red pantsuit. Her posture was rigid. Her face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.

I braced myself. I expected her to march to the stage and scold me for the public spectacle.

She didn't even look at me.

She bypassed the stage entirely. She marched straight down the center aisle toward Amber.

Amber put on a teary-eyed smile. "Eleanor, I'm so glad—"

My mother lunged.

She grabbed a fistful of Amber’s perfectly styled hair and yanked her backward.

Amber let out a piercing shriek. Eleanor raised her hand and slapped her.

The crack echoed like a gunshot over the silent crowd.

Amber collapsed onto the polished marble floor in a tangled heap of silk.

"Mother!" I roared into the microphone.

I vaulted off the stage. I sprinted to Amber and threw myself in front of her, shielding her trembling body.

"Stop!" I yelled, my blood boiling. "Have you completely lost your mind?!"

Eleanor glared down at me. Her eyes were ice.

"Scarlet pushed her down the stairs!" I screamed. "Amber lost her baby today! She lost her uterus because of that psycho!"

Eleanor froze. She looked at me. Her eyes widened.

Then, she laughed.

It was a dark, mocking sound that chilled me straight to the bone.

"A baby?" Eleanor sneered. Her voice dripped with venomous mockery.

She reached into her designer clutch. She pulled out a thick, yellowed medical file and violently shoved it directly into my chest.

"You arrogant, blind fool!" Eleanor's voice shook the crystal chandeliers. "I funded the charity that paid for her tumor surgery fifteen years ago! She had her uterus removed when she was twelve years old! She was never pregnant!"

I froze. The heavy folder hit my chest and spilled open. Papers scattered across the polished marble floor.

I stared down at the undeniable proof.

The hospital logos. The surgical notes. The dates.

Patient: Amber Hayes. Procedure: Total Hysterectomy. Age: 12.

"David, no!" Amber stuttered. She scrambled backward on the floor, her pale silk dress dragging over the scattered records. "It's a lie! It's a forgery! Scarlet paid her to—"

Suddenly, a deafening burst of static hissed through the ballroom speakers.