Chapter 2 The Woman in the Mirror

CHAPTER TWO

The Woman in the Mirror

Elena Voss watched the young woman through the hidden pane of glass in her dressing room. The East Wing used to be her sanctuary. Now it belonged to a stranger with a womb she herself couldn't command.

She ran her fingers along the marble counter, past her untouched makeup brushes, pausing at the silver frame that held a photo of her and Damian on their wedding night. They were laughing in that picture. She used to love how easily he made her laugh.

Now, they barely spoke. Their words, when they came, were brittle and calculated-like negotiating a truce rather than sharing a life.

She adjusted the satin robe around her waist and moved toward the long mirror.

The reflection showed her everything she hated: the faint lines beneath her eyes, the slight pallor of her skin, the perfection that no longer felt powerful. She used to feel radiant. Now she only felt... replaced.

Claire had warned her. "Elena, this girl-this choice-it's a recipe for emotional disaster. You're handing him temptation wrapped in youth and hope. And you think you can just manage it like a PR crisis?"

But Elena had refused to listen. She was desperate. Desperate not just for a child, but for a reason to believe she still had a place in her husband's life. So she smiled at events, wore the right dresses, said the right words-and signed the surrogacy agreement with hands that trembled only after the ink dried.

Now the girl was here. Mia. Pretty, yes. But more than that-she radiated something Elena had long buried: hope without bitterness.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her trance.

"Elena," Damian's voice came soft behind her. She didn't turn immediately.

"You saw her," she said.

"I did."

"And?"

"She's... composed."

Elena turned. "Composed. Is that what you were looking for?"

He didn't answer.

She studied him, still every inch the man she married-chiseled, distant, polished to perfection. But there were shadows under his eyes. Worry lines that weren't there a year ago. Guilt, maybe. Or was it anticipation?

"You'll be kind to her," Elena said, stepping closer. "We asked her to do something unimaginable. We owe her that."

Damian met her gaze. "Of course."

A pause. Too long.

"You're still here," she whispered. "But I haven't felt you in years."

He didn't move. "You know why."

"Yes," she said, bitter rising. "Because I can't give you a child."

Damian's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

They stood in silence, years of heartache thick between them.

Finally, he said, "Dinner is at eight."

And he left her too-like always-with the mirror, and the memory of who they used to be.

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