Seven months later.

Eleanor lay on a narrow delivery bed in a crowded Los Angeles public hospital. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering it to her forehead. Her hands gripped the metal bedrails so hard her joints popped. She let out a low, guttural groan as another contraction ripped through her abdomen.

A loud cry pierced the room.

"Boy number one," the doctor announced. A nurse quickly wiped the infant down.

Ten minutes later, the second boy arrived. Eleanor let her head fall back against the wet pillow, a weak, exhausted smile pulling at her cracked lips.

But when the third child-the girl-was delivered, the room fell dead silent. There was no cry. Only the frantic, high-pitched alarm of the fetal monitor.

The doctor's face went pale. He rushed the tiny, blue-skinned infant to the warming table and began chest compressions. Eleanor tried to sit up, panic seizing her throat, but her muscles failed her.

After agonizing minutes, a weak, kitten-like whimper came from the baby. The nurses rushed her into an incubator.

The doctor walked over to Eleanor. He pulled down his mask.

"Your daughter has severe congenital renal failure," he said. "Her kidneys are barely functioning. She needs a top-tier medical team and immediate, highly expensive treatments and potential transplants to survive."

Eleanor stared at the ceiling. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and slid into her hair. She thought of her empty bank account. She thought of the cheap motel she lived in.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She made the only choice that would keep her daughter breathing.

She reached for the hospital phone and dialed Destiney's number. When her best friend answered, Eleanor sobbed into the receiver, begging her to help execute a desperate plan.

Three nights later.

Eleanor sat in the passenger seat of Destiney's car, parked in the shadows outside the Gill estate in New York. She held the heavily bundled infant against her chest.

She opened the car door and walked to the massive bulletproof gates. The cold night air bit at her face. She placed the baby gently on the stone steps. She tucked an envelope containing a DNA test and an anonymous letter into the blankets.

Eleanor leaned down and pressed her lips to the baby's freezing forehead. A tear fell from her cheek onto the infant's nose.

She stood up, slammed her hand against the intercom buzzer, and sprinted back to the car.

The heavy gates clicked open. The old butler stepped out, holding a flashlight. He saw the bundle, gasped, and yelled for the guards.

Eleanor hid behind the tinted car window. She watched the butler carry her daughter into the warm, brightly lit mansion. She clamped both hands over her mouth to muffle her violent sobs.

Destiney handed her a tissue. Then, she dropped a forged death certificate and two plane tickets to Europe into Eleanor's lap.

Eleanor wiped her face. She stared at the iron gates one last time.

"Drive," she whispered.

The next four years were a grueling test of endurance. Eleanor poured every ounce of her grief and determination into her studies in Europe, supported by Destiney's unwavering friendship. She spent countless sleepless nights mastering architectural design, transforming her pain into brilliant, award-winning blueprints. Slowly, she buried the fragile Eleanor and forged a new, unbreakable identity: Raina, a highly sought-after architect known for her sharp vision and uncompromising standards. She built a successful firm from the ground up, ensuring her boys would never know the sting of poverty or the shadow of their father's power.

Four years later.

Eleanor, now living under the name Raina, stepped out of the customs area at JFK International Airport. She wore a tailored suit, high heels, and oversized sunglasses. She held the hands of two beautiful, identical boys.

Aydin, wearing a miniature blazer, pushed the luggage cart with a serious expression. Jalen looked everywhere, his fingers rapidly twisting a Rubik's cube.

Eleanor looked down at her phone, checking the hotel reservation.

"Stay close, boys," she said.

As they walked toward the VIP exit, a wall of men in black suits walked toward them from the opposite direction.

Griffin Gill walked in the center of the guards. He held a little girl in a pink princess dress in one arm. He was looking down at her, listening to her chatter, a rare softness in his eyes.

The two groups passed each other in the narrow corridor. Eleanor's shoulder nearly brushed against a bodyguard's jacket.

The string of the pink balloon slipped from Cece's fingers. It drifted toward Jalen. Jalen reached out and grabbed the string.

He looked up at Cece and flashed a bright, missing-tooth smile. He handed the balloon back.

Griffin stopped walking. He looked down at Jalen's face. His dark eyebrows pulled together. A strange, heavy familiarity hit his chest.

Eleanor felt the shift in movement. She snapped her head up. She saw Griffin's sharp profile.

Ice flooded her veins. Her lungs stopped working. She grabbed both boys by their collars and dragged them quickly into the thick crowd.

They burst through the sliding doors into the taxi lane. Eleanor threw the boys into the back of a waiting rideshare and slammed the door shut.