On my fourth IVF cycle, I finally got pregnant. Ethan was more excited than I was. Every day, he made me organic soups, tracked my blood pressure, and wouldn't even let me walk down the stairs without holding my arm. I thought he had finally changed. But during my prenatal checkup, the lead OB-GYN asked me a question that made my blood run cold. "Mrs. Miller, you signed the embryo donor consent form, correct?" "Yes," I replied. She hesitated. "Then... are you aware that this embryo's paternal blood type does not match Ethan’s?" I didn't understand. She put it in plain English. "The child you are carrying has a different biological father. It is highly unlikely to be your husband’s." I thought the lab had made a mistake. But when I went home and confronted Ethan, he stayed silent for a long time. Then, he looked at me and said calmly: "The embryo belongs to a friend of mine. His wife is infertile, and I promised to help him." "Your uterus has the best medical indicators. You had the highest success rate." "Don't worry. Once the baby is born, they will give us a massive payout. It's enough for us to—" I didn't let him finish. I stared at the ultrasound photo on the coffee table. The tiny, seven-week-old dot was still flickering with a heartbeat. This child should never have been created. But the one who deserved to disappear from this world was Ethan.
"Who is this friend?" I was clutching the ultrasound sheet so hard my nails almost ripped through the paper. Ethan looked at me. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only calculation. He was measuring my anger, deciding how much truth he needed to feed me to keep me quiet. "You're too emotional right now, Chloe. Let's talk tomorrow—" "I asked you a question." After a few seconds of silence, he picked up his glass of water, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Adrian Vance." Adrian Vance. The real estate mogul. He was on the Forbes list every single year. His wife was Victoria Vance, a mega-influencer with over twenty million followers on Instagram. Her brand was built on being "the ultimate, most elegant mom-to-be." Wait. Victoria. "Three years ago... she was the one who set us up at that dinner party, wasn't she?" He didn't deny it. At that dinner, Victoria had smiled warmly, pushing me toward Ethan, saying, *“You two are a match made in heaven.”* "What is your relationship with her?" "We went to college together." We had been married for three years, and he had never mentioned her once. I pushed myself up from the sofa and walked into the study. His laptop was closed but still running. On the desktop, there was a folder named *“The Project.”* He hadn't even locked it with a password. He probably thought I was too stupid to do anything about it. The first file was my gynecological report. My name, ID, uterine position, endometrial thickness, ovarian reserve—every detail was annotated with handwritten notes. The creation date of the file was two months before we even met. The second file was an Excel spreadsheet. The title: *Candidate Evaluation Matrix.* Fourteen rows. Fourteen women. Age, height, weight, menstrual cycle, history of pregnancy. The last column was labeled: *Overall Score.* I was in row three. Score: 9.2. The highest on the sheet. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His expression was like an adult watching a toddler open a toy. "You made a product catalog of women?" "It’s a screening sheet for the surrogate carrier," he corrected me, his tone clinical. "Victoria has a uterine defect. She needed a carrier with the absolute best physical indicators. Standard agency surrogacy is too public and carries too many legal risks. I proposed a more secure option." "By marrying me." "Yes. Doing IVF under the guise of marriage is completely legal. No loopholes." He smiled slightly as he said those words, as if he were presenting a beautiful business model. "So, where did I rank on this list?" "First." "Oh. And the prize for first place was getting to marry you?" "You could look at it that way." My nails dug deep into the leather of his office chair. My entire arm was shaking. "I’m terminating the pregnancy tomorrow." Suddenly, his hand clamped down on my wrist like a steel cuff. In three years of marriage, he had never laid a finger on me. He had never needed violence; his psychological control was always enough. But now, he was panicking. "You can hate me, but you cannot touch this child. Victoria has waited five years. The first three attempts failed—" He stopped mid-sentence. "The first three?" Three times on the operating table. Three times bleeding. Three times staring at a single line on a pregnancy test. Every time, I thought it was my fault, that my body was broken. Every time, he had held me and said, *“It’s okay, honey. We’ll try again.”* "Were those first three times accidents, or was that planned too?" He let go of my wrist. Not out of mercy, but because he realized he had said too much. "Chloe, calm down." "Answer me!" He took a step back, slipping into his corporate-presentation voice. "The embryo batches for the first three runs didn't meet the standards. It was Victoria’s call. She only wanted the premium-grade embryos." Quality control. She called my pain *quality control*. The agony of those three procedures, kneeling over the toilet vomiting until my stomach spasmed, the heartbreaking look on his face when I came out of the clinic—it was all an act. He was just helping her run a quality-assurance check on my body. "Let me remind you of one last thing," his voice was quiet, but every word felt like a nail driving into my chest. "Your mother is living very comfortably at Meadowview. The $8,500 monthly care fee—did you really think I was paying that out of my own pocket?"
I was fully dressed before sunrise. As I was tying my sneakers, his voice drifted from the bedroom doorway. "Going somewhere?" "Getting groceries." "There's some pork chops in the fridge. I'll make you stew for lunch." His tone was exactly the same as yesterday. He was even sweeter, as if the spreadsheet of fourteen women and the three failed "quality checks" had never happened. I grabbed my bag and walked out. He didn't stop me. But when I got downstairs, a white Porsche was idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing a face so heavily filtered it looked like airbrushed plastic. She smiled at me. "Chloe, right? Get in. Let's get some breakfast." Victoria. She was wearing a loose knit dress, her stomach showing a slight, perfect bump—the classic second-trimester look. Her twenty million followers watched that belly "grow" every single day on Instagram. "No." "Your mother’s care bill for this month hasn't been signed off yet," she said, tapping her steering wheel. "Want to take a look at it in the car?" My feet froze. Three seconds later, I opened the passenger door and climbed in. She didn't take me to a cafe. Instead, she drove into the underground garage of a commercial building and killed the engine. The car fell silent, save for the low hum of the AC. "Since this is our first official meeting, let me introduce myself," she said, pulling a Chanel compact from her bag to touch up her lipstick. "I'm the client for this project." "Project?" "Yes. The one in your belly," she pointed at my stomach with her manicured, glittering nail. "Your body is the vessel. My husband provided the sperm, I provided the egg, and Ethan handles the logistics and daily maintenance. Clear division of labor. Everyone plays their part." I wanted to laugh, but my jaw was too tight. "You call this a project?" "What else would you call it? Did you think you were in a romance novel?" She snapped her compact shut. "Don't flatter yourself, Chloe. You're just a container. A highly rated, high-functioning container." She unlocked her phone and slid it in front of my face. It was a live camera feed of my living room. "You spent forty-three minutes in the study last night. You went through his laptop and found the matrix," she said, her voice as flat as a weather report. "Your reaction was a bit slower than I expected. I thought you'd start questioning things after the second failed cycle." "You put cameras in my house?" "It’s not your house. I bought that condo," she tilted her head. "I had the cameras installed during the renovation. I check in every now and then to monitor your diet and sleep. After all, you are carrying my baby." She swiped to her Instagram profile. Her latest post was from this morning—a mirror selfie of her holding her "pregnant" belly. The caption read: *“Week 19! Baby kicked today!”* Millions of likes. The comments were flooded with: *“You’re so glowing, Victoria!”* and *“The luckiest mom ever!”* "You're not pregnant," my voice shook. "That stomach is fake." "Medical-grade silicone. Custom-made. It feels incredibly real," she patted her stomach like it was a new Hermès bag. "Why would I actually ruin my body? Do you know how much money I make per live stream? If I ruin my figure, who pays my bills?" She restarted the engine. "I’ll drop you back. Be a good girl and stay put. I see every step you take." I stared out the windshield, my hands gripping the seatbelt. "And if I refuse to cooperate?" She didn't turn her head. "In your mother’s room at Meadowview, in the second drawer on the right, there's a bottle of aspirin. High-dose blood thinners are very dangerous for the elderly. One extra milligram can change everything. You wouldn't want an accident to happen to her, would you?" "Are you threatening—" "I’m helping you make the right choice." She pulled up to the gate of my apartment complex and turned to look at me. "Just give me seven months, Chloe. Hand over the baby, take your payout, and your mom stays at Meadowview. We all win. Let's keep it classy." I opened the door and stepped out. "And what if I don't want to be classy?" Her lips curved into a perfectly rehearsed smile. "Then you and your mother will lose everything."
When I got back, Ethan was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, his apron tied immaculately. "Did you see Victoria?" He didn't even ask *who* I met. He already knew. "Get her to leave me alone." "I can't. She’s the client." "I don't care what she is. Tell her to take the cameras out of my home." He laid down his knife, wiped his hands, and pulled an envelope from the entryway drawer. "Your ID is in here." I reached for it, but he pulled it back. "Chloe, you have two choices. Option one: follow the plan, deliver the baby, your mom’s bills are paid, and you walk away with a million dollars. Option two..." He slid the envelope into his pocket. "I have the embryo consent form with your signature. It’s real. Even if you sue me, you're legally tied to this process. You're an accomplice." "That form had your name on it, not Adrian’s." "The original copy has Adrian’s name. You didn't even read it when you signed." My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was right. I had trusted him blindly. Every document he put in front of me, I had signed without reading past the first line. "I'll hold onto your ID and cards for now. Just tell me what you need, and I'll buy it for you." "This is kidnapping." "This is just domestic negotiation." He went back to chopping vegetables. When he went down to throw out the trash in the afternoon, I picked up the landline in the living room. No dial tone. He had restricted the settings. It could only receive incoming calls. I took a deep breath, walked out of the apartment, and knocked on my neighbor's door. Mrs. Davis opened it, gasping when she saw my pale face. "Chloe? Oh dear, you look terrible." "Sarah, can I borrow your phone? Mine is broken." She handed it to me. I quickly dialed Sienna's number from memory. It rang twice. "Hello?" "Sienna, it’s me. I need—" The phone was ripped from my hand. Ethan was standing behind me, offering Mrs. Davis a polite, apologetic smile. "Sorry about this, Sarah. My wife’s hormones are all over the place because of the pregnancy. She’s a bit paranoid lately, thinks everyone is out to get her." "Oh, pregnancy brain is no joke," Mrs. Davis said sympathetically, looking at me with pity. "Get some rest, Chloe. Don't stress." The door shut. Ethan grabbed my wrist and dragged me back inside. Not painfully, but firm enough that I couldn't break free. "Don't try that again." "You're keeping me prisoner!" "I'm protecting you." That afternoon, he drove me to a private clinic. Not the high-end hospital where I did my IVF, but a sketchy office tucked away at the end of an alley. In the exam room, a middle-aged man in gold-rimmed glasses flipped through my chart while hosting a FaceTime call. Victoria's face appeared on his screen. "Dr. Carter, how are her stats?" Dr. Carter lifted his stethoscope from my belly, checking me like a machine off an assembly line. "Vitals are stable. But her stress levels are too high. High cortisol can affect placental function." "What's the fix?" "I recommend Clonazepam. One pill every night. Once her sleep improves, her mood will stabilize." "Write the prescription," Victoria ordered. I pushed Dr. Carter’s hand away. "You're giving me heavy sedatives? I'm pregnant!" Dr. Carter didn't even look up. "A low dose has manageable risks for the fetus." Victoria’s voice came through the speaker, cold and monotone. "Just cooperate, Chloe. You need to sleep so my baby can grow." The nurse walked over with a cup of water and a small white pill. "Drink up, Mrs. Miller. You'll get a good night's sleep." Ethan watched me from the corner, silent. I took the pill and put it in my mouth. I took a sip of water. I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, trapping the pill underneath, and swallowed only the water. "Good girl," Ethan said, patting my head.
For three days, I hid the pill under my tongue and spat it down the toilet whenever they weren't looking. Seeing me "docile" from the meds, Ethan happily reported to Victoria: "She’s stable. Dr. Carter's prescription is working." On the fourth day, a black SUV arrived to pick me up. "Victoria wants you at a private gathering to meet some friends," the driver said. Ethan opened the car door for me, whispering, "Don't say anything stupid." The gathering was at a VIP lounge in a private club. Crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plates of high-end molecular gastronomy. Five women were seated around a long table, all dressed in designer outfits. Victoria sat at the head of the table. When she saw me, she got up and wrapped her arm around mine. "Everyone, let me introduce her," she said, looking around the room. "This is our carrier. Her medical stats are perfect. I had to screen over a dozen candidates before finding her." She patted my shoulder, like a breeder showing off a prize horse. The woman sitting closest to me reached out and touched my stomach. "Oh, Victoria, you have such good taste. Narrow waist, wide pelvis. She’s built for easy labor." "How far along is she?" "Almost nine weeks," Victoria answered for me. "The numbers are beautiful. Dr. Carter says she's exceeding expectations." They talked about me like I was a piece of fine art on display. They critiqued my skin, guessed my diet, and asked Victoria how much she was paying for a "vessel" like me. I sat there, gripping the edge of my chair, saying nothing. Halfway through, I excused myself to use the restroom. Just as I reached the door of the powder room, I heard Victoria’s voice coming from the adjacent lounge. She was on a call. The door was cracked open. "I had Dr. Carter manipulate the parameters for the first three runs. He kept the embryo viability under thirty percent. The implantation rate was practically zero." My feet glued themselves to the tile floor. "Exactly. We only used the premium batch on the fourth try. I needed her to suffer a few failures first. It breaks their spirit, makes them desperate and grateful. When it finally succeeds, they think it's a miracle... No, Adrian doesn't know. He thinks we went through a legitimate agency in California." I threw my hand over my mouth. Three times. Three years. The terror of being wheeled into the OR, the despair of seeing a single line, the nights I spent crying until I threw up in the bathtub—it was all a setup. It wasn't because my body was broken. It was because she wanted me to suffer. She was testing my breaking point, breaking my spirit until she knew I was completely broken before she implanted the real embryo. Quality control. She wasn't just controlling the embryo. She was controlling me. She was grinding my soul into dust until I was completely obedient. I backed away down the hallway and slid down the wall to the floor. I was shivering, my breath coming in ragged gasps. When I returned to the lounge, Victoria had already hung up. She noticed my pale face and squinted slightly, but her smile returned instantly. "You look pale, dear. Should I have the driver take you home?" I didn't answer. My eyes fell on a dark blue designer coat hanging on the rack next to her. The initials *AV* were embroidered inside the collar. Adrian's coat. This was a private club; Adrian probably came here often. A business card was sticking out of the pocket. As I walked past the rack, my fingers darted out. I slipped the card into my sleeve. That night, Ethan fell asleep early. His phone was charging on the nightstand, face down. I lay in the dark for a long time. Once his breathing became deep and heavy, I slipped out of bed. The card in my palm was sweaty and crumpled. It had Adrian’s private number on it. I grabbed Ethan's phone. I pressed my thumb to the sensor—he had registered my print as a backup years ago and had forgotten to remove it. I opened Snapchat. I searched for Adrian’s name. Their last message was from three days ago. Ethan had sent: *“Everything is on track. Don't worry.”* I quickly typed a message: *“Mr. Vance, this is Chloe, Ethan’s wife. Victoria is using my womb to carry your child without my consent. Please help me.”* Sent. Delete chat history. I put the phone back exactly as it was. I crawled back into bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up in the dark.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "NovelMaster" app ? search for "466443", and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster