Chapter 3 THE PHOTO

Elena slammed the flat door shut, her chest thumping.

The boom resonated across the short hallway like a gunshot. She jammed the deadbolt in with a quivering thumb and shoved the chain across, her back striking the peeling wood as if it alone could keep back the torrent barreling through her chest.

She couldn't breathe. Not correctly. Her ribcage tightened too firmly around her lungs.

Lily stood right behind her, wide-eyed and hugging her plush fox to her bosom.

"Mommy," she whimpered, "why did that man look mad?"

Elena went to her knees so fast it made her dizzy. She held Lily's delicate face between shaking hands and forced a smile, one that shattered around the corners.

"He wasn't mad at you, baby," she whispered softly. "He was just... confused."

Like me.

She tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind Lily's ear, running her thumb lightly across the sensitive flesh of her cheek. Her daughter's face was an anchor, a comfort. She knew every freckle, every eyelash. She'd spent five years memorizing that face, finding solace in it.

But now, another face haunted her.

Caleb.

That boy from the school. The boy who had stared at Lily like he knew her. Who had shouted her name with that desperate, old agony.

The likeness was too perfect. Not close. Not comparable.

Identical.

Her stomach twisted uncontrollably. She blinked rapidly to force back the tears swelling behind her eyes.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, wiping the hair from Lily's forehead, "why don't you get your crayons? Could you design me one of your amazing castles?"

Lily gave a little, exhausted nod, then crept toward the living room, pulling her teddy fox after her. She sank onto the floor with a gentle groan and began searching through her coloring box.

Elena waited until she was out of sight. Then she ran, half-stumbling down the hallway and into her bedroom.

Her fingers fumbled with the nightstand drawer. She pushed aside a stack of old receipts and a broken charger cable. Then she slipped her hand beneath the artificial bottom she'd put in years before.

Her fingers found the corner of the envelope.

The manila was ancient now creased, stained around the edges, mushy from age and grief.

She hadn't looked at it in over four years.

Couldn't.

The guilt had been too much.

But now, her hands shook as she tugged it free.

She sat on the side of the bed, heart hammering, and opened it. Slowly. Carefully. Like disarming a bomb.

Inside: A faded surrogacy contract.

A medical summary loaded with cold, lifeless words.

And a single photo.

The one she wasn't intended to have.

She'd taken it the night she ran alone, hurting, disoriented. The nurse had left the file open on the desk in the corner. She had reached for it without thinking, slipped it into her coat pocket while the room swirled and the world broke apart.

Now she pulled the photo free.

A newborn infant dressed in hospital blue.

His cheeks were soft and frail, his mouth opened slightly, his tiny eyes closed. She knew that face. Not because she had seen him previously. But because she had seen Lily's face every day for five years.

They were the same.

The date printed at the bottom read April 19, 2020.

The same day Lily was born.

The day she was told her son had died.

Her throat closed. Her eyesight clouded. She pressed her hand over her mouth to conceal a yell.

She had pleaded to see him. Begged.

But she'd been hemorrhaging after delivery, falling in and out of consciousness. The doctor told her the boy hadn't made it. That he'd been stillborn. That the body had previously been "handled" by the agency. That because to confidentiality terms in the contract, no burial or documents could be provided.

A wall of lies encased in cold legal terminology.

She'd believed it.

What option did she have?

By the time she'd recovered enough to demand answers, they had closed ranks. The agency vanished. Her contract had been judged satisfied. Her pain? Irrelevant.

But that snapshot had always been there. Waiting. Festering.

And now, staring into the similar blue eyes of a youngster named Caleb, everything crumbled.

The scribbled inscription on the back of the photo corroborated what she already knew.

"Caleb B." A nurse's short note. Probably meaningless to them. But to her?

It was everything.

That youngster was her son.

She curled forward on the bed, grasping the photo like it could vanish. Her body shook.

A knock rocked the flat door.

Sharp.

Loud.

Elena froze.

Not now.

Not here.

Please, God, not now.

She pushed the photo and envelope back into the drawer, slamming it close. She cleaned her cheeks rapidly and forced herself to breathe.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Lily looked around the corner from the living room. "Mommy?"

"It's okay, baby." Elena attempted to sound calm. She put on a smile and walked quickly to the front door.

She glanced through the peephole.

Her heart stopped.

Damian Blackwell.

Cold. Controlled. Towering in a dark overcoat. His gaze fixated on the door like he could burn through it with pure desire.

He raised his hand and knocked again.

"Elena Moore," came his voice, powerful and forceful. "Open the door."

She stepped back like the wood was suddenly searing.

His voice was calm. But beneath that surface was something sharp. Something harmful.

Another knock.

"You ran. That was a mistake."

She tightened her teeth, fists quivering at her sides.

"I don't owe you anything!" She snapped, the words rushing out of her throat before she could stop them.

A long pause.

Then: "You owe me the truth."

His voice was quieter now, but no less forceful. Every phrase hit like a verdict.

Elena stood frozen. Her hand wrapped around the doorknob, knuckles white.

She couldn't open it. Not now. Not with Lily still awake. Still listening.

She had to protect her. No matter what.

"Elena," he murmured again, softer now, but forceful. "We can do this now. Or we can do it in court."

Her breath caught.

Her legs wobbled.

Her fingers clenched around the knob.

She didn't open the door.

Not yet.

But she knew one thing, as sure as her heart thudded in her chest.

He wasn't leaving.

And neither was this storm.