The Surrogate's Revenge

“I really don't want to be here," Sylvia whispered. Julia didn't turn. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where mist curled above the hot spring like steam from a secret. “You said you'd come," Julia said softly. “I said I'd come because you wouldn't stop insisting," Sylvia replied. “Not because I wanted to." Julia exhaled. “Don't make this harder than it already is." Harder. Sylvia almost laughed. She hadn't had a choice the moment Todd's voice dropped into that dangerous hush over dinner—when silence meant obedience and dissent meant consequences. Now she stood on Albert's private villa deck, gripping the railing so tightly her fingers ached. Albert, the billionaire with a silver tongue and a predator's patience, stood a few feet away, pretending civility for Julia's benefit. He wore courtesy like a borrowed suit—ill-fitting and temporary. “Sylvia," he said smoothly. “Still so quiet. You used to smile more. What changed?" She didn't answer. Couldn't. Not with Julia right there. Not with the memory of a locked room and drugged wine still clinging to her skin. Albert tilted his head. “Shy? Or just rude these days?" “Let's go inside," Julia interrupted gently. “The steam's making me dizzy." He offered her his arm. Sylvia followed three steps behind. Dinner passed in polite performance. Julia talked about her heart checkup. Albert nodded like a fiancé should. Sylvia kept her head down, cutting carrots she wouldn't eat, heart pounding in rhythm with every minute that passed. Afterward, Julia yawned and excused herself early. The click of her bedroom door sounded like a sentence. Sylvia didn't wait. She headed straight for her guest room, shut the door, locked it, and shoved a chair beneath the knob. Just in case. She curled up on the bed, fully clothed. Sleep, if it came, would be shallow and twitching. It wasn't sleep that woke her. It was the clink. She opened her eyes. A cold cuff encircled her wrist, locked to the brass headboard. Albert sat beside her like a judge on break. Calm. Too calm. “You locked the door," he said. “And blocked it." Her throat tightened. “You broke in?" “I let myself in," he corrected. “It's my house. And your door was never going to stop me." “Please," she whispered. “Don't do this." He tilted his head, amused. “Do what, Sylvia? Talk? Spend time with the mother of my child-to-be? Educate?" She pulled her arm, testing the restraint. It didn't give. “This isn't right," she said. “What isn't? Reminding you who you belong to?" “I don't belong to anyone." “You do now." His hand brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “This is discipline. You ran from your responsibilities. I'm correcting that." “I didn't run." He smiled faintly. “You tried. That's what matters." Her voice rose. “Let me go." “You're not hurt. I haven't even touched you—yet. And you should know, I'm not doing this because I hate you. I'm doing it because I want you to understand." She turned her face away. Albert sighed. “I hate being the villain. I gave you chances to behave." “You mean obey." “Semantics." Silence stretched between them. Then his fingers brushed her collarbone, feather-light. She flinched. “This isn't affection," she said tightly. “It's a lesson," he murmured. “About consequences. And loyalty." Tears slid hot down her temples into her ears. But her spine stayed stiff. Her body shook, but her voice didn't break. “You can't force love," she said. He smiled again. “No. But I can inspire honesty." She stared at the ceiling, willing herself away from the moment. She remembered the banquet. The heavy scent of lilies. The toast Camila insisted she take. The servant who guided her down the cedar hallway. The door that clicked behind her and didn't open again. She remembered how silence felt when it swallowed a no whole. Now, in the present, her muscles were ice and fire. Her eyes dry. Her heart screaming. When it was over, he unlocked the cuff with a practiced flick. “You'll see," he said. “This kind of truth... it breeds closeness. No more secrets between us." She didn't answer. She couldn't. He left with the same quiet arrogance with which he arrived. The door clicked shut. She didn't move. Not right away. Eventually, she sat up, gathered her clothes, and showered. Not to cleanse—there was no cleansing this—but to feel her own hands, her own choices, even if they were small and helpless. Back in the bedroom, she sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. She counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. Again. She studied the room: one window, one door, one dresser. The screw in the hinge. The baseboard near the bed that didn't quite align. A pencil beside the nightstand, likely dropped by housekeeping. She wasn't planning escape yet. But she was memorizing possibilities. Survival would not mean surrender. Her body didn't belong to Albert, not in memory, not in aftermath. Her choices—though stolen—still echoed inside her. And one day, she would gather those echoes into something louder than fear. She pressed her forehead to her knees. “I will leave," she whispered. “You won't decide how this ends." Not him. Not Camila. Not Todd. And not the contract they called family.