The room spun.
Lila was my twenty-eight-year-old assistant. My kind, smiling assistant who brought me tea, called me “inspiring,” and once cried in my office because she “wanted a career like mine.”
My hand drifted to my stomach.
Dr. Voss swallowed. “She came here using your insurance card.”
“What?”
“She said she was your surrogate.”
Ice spread through my veins.
Elena clicked another file. A consent form appeared. My signature was at the bottom—neat, elegant.
Forged.
“They’re trying to create a medical paper trail,” she whispered. “If you’re pregnant, they didn’t expect it. If they claim confusion, custody, fraud—Mara, I don’t know the full plan, but Victor’s name is on this authorization.”
I stared at the fake signature.
Victor had kissed me that morning and said, “Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart. At your age, miracles usually come with fine print.”
Now I understood the fine print.
I slipped my shoes back on slowly. My hands had stopped trembling.
Elena touched my arm. “Are you safe going home?”
“No,” I said. “But they don’t know that.”
Because Victor believed I was just his aging wife—grateful for his money, desperate for his love.
