Chapter 2

Ethan' s voice, when he spoke of Cassandra, now echoed in my mind with a chilling new meaning.

"She' s been through so much, Amy. Her inability to have children... it' s a tragedy."

He' d said it with such sympathy. Now, I saw the calculation.

I replayed every moment, every touch, every shared glance.

It was all a lie.

My resemblance to Cassandra, something Ethan had once called a "charming coincidence," now felt like a cruel design.

He hadn' t chosen me; he' d chosen a vessel.

I had to pretend. I smiled when Ethan touched my growing belly.

I nodded when he talked about "our" future with Olivia.

Inside, a storm raged. I was a prisoner in my own life, my own body.

Ethan was more attentive than ever, his concern a suffocating blanket.

"You need your rest, Amy. Dr. Chen says you're high-risk."

He brought me special meals, monitored my activity, all under the guise of care.

It was control.

I started watching him, really watching.

His phone calls, always taken in another room.

The way his eyes lit up when Cassandra's name was mentioned.

One afternoon, while he was showering, I risked it.

His phone lay on the nightstand. My hands trembled as I picked it up.

His password was Cassandra' s birthday. Of course it was.

Texts. Hundreds of them.

Ethan: "Noah took his first steps today. Cassy sent a video. He looks so much like her."

Cassandra: "He' s our perfect boy, E. Olivia will complete our family."

Our family. Not mine.

Then, the photos. Noah, a beautiful, laughing baby, in Cassandra' s arms.

In a lavish nursery. With Jonathan Hayes, Cassandra' s tech billionaire husband, beaming beside them.

My son. Alive and well, living a life I was never meant to see.

A life built on my stolen child.

I scrolled to Cassandra' s public social media, linked from a message.

Her feed was a curated fantasy of perfect motherhood.

Pictures of "her" son Noah, his face artfully blurred for "privacy," but it was him.

Captions about her joy, her miracle baby.

The injustice burned through me. Her happiness was my torment.

Ethan' s plan was clear now. I was the secret surrogate, the incubator.

He hadn't married Amy Walker, the artist from Cleveland. He'd acquired a womb.