Chapter 2

He left as soon as it was over.

Evelyn was drained, her body limp against the sheets. She curled into herself, trembling.

The doctors had said this position increased her chances.

Night after night, it continued.

Dominic Blackwood never missed an appointment, no matter how late his meetings ran. His presence was as inevitable as the moon rising.

Margaret Whitmore and her husband, Walter Harrison, exchanged worried glances. They knew better than to comment on their employer’s… enthusiasm.

The man was ruthless in business—cold, calculating, impossible to read.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

By the end of the month, Evelyn could barely stand.

Dominic was unpredictable. One moment, tender. The next, punishing.

Her body no longer felt like her own.

Tonight, he dressed swiftly, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced ease.

"I expect good news," he said, voice clipped.

Then he was gone.

Silence swallowed the room.

To Evelyn, he was a phantom—nameless, faceless, terrifying. A monster lurking beneath a polished exterior.

She heard the click of his lighter outside. The scent of tobacco drifted through the open window.

All she had to do was look.

But fear held her still.

A month later.

Two bold red lines stared back at her.

Relief crashed over Evelyn like a wave.

For weeks, she’d prayed for this. Now, she wouldn’t have to endure his visits anymore.

Margaret was the only face from that side of the bargain she ever saw.

No lawyers.

No contracts.

Just silence.

Until now.

"I’ll need to clear your requests with Mr. Blackwood," Margaret said, phone already in hand.

Evelyn had two conditions:

She would continue attending college until her pregnancy became obvious.

She refused to stay in that mansion. Her tiny apartment was sanctuary enough.

A minute later, Margaret nodded.

"He agreed."

Evelyn exhaled.

That afternoon, she called the hospital.

"Dr. Grant? How’s my father?"

"The surgery’s scheduled. The donor’s a perfect match."

Evelyn’s throat tightened.

She’d sold her body for this.

Should she feel guilty?

No.

Her father was alive.

That was all that mattered.

Tears spilled anyway. She wiped them away, forcing a smile.

Five months later.

Her bump was undeniable now.

Margaret handled everything—even the principal personally escorted her out after approving Evelyn’s leave.

"We’ve listed it as a medical absence," Margaret assured her. "No one will know."

Evelyn nodded, grateful.

That evening, she visited her father.

At eighteen, pregnant by a stranger—Robert Sinclair would never understand.

Thankfully, autumn layers hid her secret.

She tugged her hoodie lower as she stepped onto the hospital floor.

Then froze.

Her stepmother’s voice slithered from the room.

"—should’ve died in that accident."

Evelyn’s blood turned to ice.