Chapter 2

The Uber came to a jerky halt outside the massive, wrought-iron gates of the Gates family estate on Long Island's Gold Coast. The driver muttered a curse, refusing to drive any further into the hyper-secured perimeter.

Carissa paid the fare and stepped out. The biting ocean wind whipped her hair across her face. She stared up at the towering stone walls, her stomach twisting into a tight knot. She was walking into a gilded prison.

The gates slowly glided open. Alistair Finch, the estate's head butler, stood waiting in an immaculate tailcoat, flanked by two silent maids. His eyes dragged over Carissa's frayed trench coat, his upper lip curling in a micro-expression of pure disgust.

"Get in the cart," Alistair instructed. His British accent was flawless and coated in ice. He didn't use her name. He didn't use 'Ma'am'.

Carissa climbed into the back of the golf cart. As they drove across the sprawling, perfectly manicured lawns that rivaled Versailles, the sheer, oppressive weight of the Gates family's wealth made it hard for her to breathe.

When the cart stopped at the main portico, Carissa stepped down. Alistair didn't pause to accommodate her pace, his rigid posture silently dictating that she was expected to keep up without complaint. She followed him down a long corridor lined with oil portraits of Gates ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to track her, mocking the intruder, the heavy silence of the house pressing against her eardrums with every step she took on the pristine Italian marble.

They reached the second floor. Carissa stopped outside the nursery door. Before she could push the heavy wood open, a woman's voice drifted out-soft, melodic, and entirely artificial.

Carissa peeked through the crack in the door. A woman in a custom silk dress sat at the edge of Isadore's bed, holding a children's book.

The woman sensed the movement and turned. Her face was striking, perfectly contoured. Imogene Clemons. Guilford's fiancée.

Imogene set the book down. She stood, her heels clicking softly as she walked to the door. She stepped out into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut behind her, physically cutting Carissa off from her son.

Imogene looked Carissa up and down. A condescending smile touched her glossy lips. She extended a hand, the massive diamond engagement ring catching the hallway light. "I'm Imogene. Isadore's future mother."

Carissa stared at the diamond. A sharp pain pierced her chest, but she kept her hands at her sides. "I want to see my son."

Imogene dropped her hand. She didn't look embarrassed; she looked amused. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a pitying whisper. "Take the money and leave, Carissa. Don't grasp at things that will never belong to you."

Carissa's jaw tightened. "If you weren't so useless, Guilford wouldn't have had to beg the biological mother to step in."

The perfect mask cracked. Imogene leaned in, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. "You bottom-feeding trash. You're only going to stain the carpets here."

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Guilford appeared, wearing a dark, custom-tailored suit, his presence instantly dominating the space.

Imogene's face transformed in a fraction of a second. Her eyes welled with tears. She rushed to Guilford, wrapping her arms around his bicep. "Guilford, she's being so hostile to me."

Guilford's brow darkened. His cold eyes bypassed Imogene and slammed into Carissa. "You will follow the rules in this house, Carissa. Or you will leave."

Carissa watched them stand together, a perfect, powerful couple. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant fist. But she lifted her chin, refusing to let a single tear fall.

Guilford reached past her and pushed the nursery door open. "Go look at the boy. Stop causing scenes in the hallway."

Carissa took a deep breath. She ignored Imogene's victorious smirk, walked into the room, and locked the heavy door behind her.

Isadore lay on the massive bed, a ventilator mask over his pale face. Carissa's tough exterior crumbled. She rushed to the bedside and dropped to her knees.

She took his small, freezing hand in hers. Hot tears fell freely now, soaking into the pristine white bedsheets. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."

Isadore didn't wake. The only sound was the mechanical hiss of the ventilator. Every rise and fall of his small chest pulled at her raw nerves.

Through the thick wood of the door, she could hear the muffled sounds of Imogene and Guilford. Imogene was asking him to dinner. Guilford's low voice agreed.

The casual domesticity of their exchange felt like toxic needles driving into Carissa's ears. It was a brutal reminder that she was nothing but a rented womb.

She sat on the floor for an hour. Finally, a sharp knock from Alistair signaled her time was up.

Carissa stood. Her legs had fallen asleep, and she stumbled, gripping the edge of the mattress to keep from falling.

She pressed a soft kiss to Isadore's forehead. When she opened the door and stepped back into the empty, luxurious hallway, her eyes were dry. She knew exactly what she had to survive.