CRUMBLING ILLUSION

Delilah Tomson – Point of View

“The father of the baby and I have decided to keep our baby. Please do not contact us, or we will call the police and tell the media about your fake pregnancy.”

My eyes widen as I stare at the message on my phone, the glowing screen burning itself into my vision. She did not just say that. My surrogate , the same desperate little nobody I handpicked from that rundown agency has decided to double-cross me at the final hour.

Who does she think she is ? Threatening me ? Delilah Tomson ?

She must have a death wish .

I clench the phone in my fist, my nails digging into my palm. Does she have any idea who I am ? What I am capable of? If she knew even half the lengths I have gone to in order to make this plan work , she would be trembling.

That ungrateful little girl ! When her so-called boyfriend walked out on her the moment she showed him the pregnancy test, I was there. I comforted her. I paid for her rent, prenatal vitamins, doctor’s visits. I even faked a few photos to sell the illusion that I was pregnant myself.

She owes me.

And now, she thinks she can walk away with my ticket to security ? My ticket to Jackson ?

My entire plan has been perfectly orchestrated . The emotional ambush at the hotel. The staged seduction. The “pregnancy” that would bind Jackson to me forever while Emily’s world fell apart. Everything was working. Until now.

In the chaos, I dial the only person who might have a solution.

“Rosaline,” I whisper as soon as she answers, panic leaking into my voice. “We have got a serious problem. The surrogate’s out. She is keeping the baby.”

There is a long pause.

Then, her voice sharpens like ice.

“ You’re joking .”

“I wish I was.”

She exhales deeply. “You need to stay calm. I will think of something. But we might have an even bigger problem.”

My gut drops.

“What could be worse than this?”

“My connection at the hospital says Emily might still have a safe delivery.”

My breath hitches. “What?”

“Apparently, the bleeding stopped. The doctors are confident she and she is going into surgery now.”

No... This can not be happening.

This is the universe laughing in my face. I saved that woman’s life by calling that ambulance. I should have let her bleed on that floor. Now she is about to give birth to Jackson’s children and I have got nothing but a hollow belly and a burned bridge with my surrogate.

Everything I built is about to collapse. Jackson will never look at me the same way again. If Emily gives birth, the empire is hers. Her babies will inherit everything. And I will be left with… nothing.

No. I will not let that happen. I have come too far. There must be a way.

Nurse Nancy – Point of View

“You may never carry a child to full term again,” the doctor says gently, his voice coated with pity. “And any further attempts could put your life at serious risk.”

I sit there frozen in my seat, staring at the pale-blue folder he’s handed me, the ultrasound images and blood test results blurring into meaningless shapes. It is all final now. The last thread of hope has been cut.

For ten years, I tried.

Fertility treatments. Injections. Tears. Prayers. Every month, hoping. Every year, grieving. My husband left last fall. Said I was “damaged goods.” That he had wasted his youth on me.

He was not wrong.

I have spent the better part of a decade nurturing other people’s babies into this world while my own womb betrayed me. There is no justice in it. No sense. And now, even the possibility of a miracle has been stolen from me.

I nod silently, pressing my lips together. The doctor offers some sympathetic words I do not even register them and I walk out of the office like a ghost.

My shift is not over yet.

I tuck away my own heartbreak, like I have done so many times before, and head back to the nurses’ station. I have to help others it is what I do. It is all I have left.

Then I hear my name on the intercom.

“Nurse Nancy, you are needed in the operating room. Code white. Multiples.”

I rush toward the OR without hesitation. I have been in many high-stakes deliveries, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight inside.

A young woman. Pale, trembling. Her white hospital gown soaked with blood at the hem. She is pregnant with triplets.

Triplets.

I can see the fear etched into every inch of her face as she thrashes on the table.

“I am losing them,” she cries out.

“No, sweetheart, you are not,” I say, gently gripping her hand. “You are going to be okay. Your babies will be okay.”

I mean it with every cell in my body, I mean it.

There is something about her ,something that pulls at my soul. She looks familiar, though I do not know why. But it is not just her face. It is something deeper.

A connection I can not explain.

She squeezes my hand harder. Her eyes meet mine.

“Promise me,” she sobs. “Promise me they will live.”

“I promise.”

The surgery begins.

The doctor works swiftly, making the incision. The room goes quiet. And then soft, piercing cries fill the air.

The first baby.

A perfect, wriggling, screaming miracle. My heart floods with warmth. I bite my lip to stop from crying. I have done hundreds of deliveries, but this feels… different.

Soon the second baby is delivered. Then the third.

Three beautiful lives, squirming and wailing as we wrap them in blankets and hand them to pediatric nurses.

And just like that, something in me begins to mend.

I do not know who this woman is, but as she holds her babies and cries tears of joy, I feel like I have been given something, too. A reminder that miracles do happen. Just not always in the way you expect.

As the mother falls asleep under sedation, I look down at the smallest baby girl. She blinks up at me through sleepy eyes, her tiny fingers curling around mine.

She does not know she has changed my life.

But she has.

DELILAH POINT OF VIEW

Later That Evening

I sit on the edge of my bed, clutching a throw pillow like it is a lifeline, my phone screen lit up with the worst news imaginable.

Emily survived.

She gave birth to three healthy babies.

Triplets.

My jaw clenches, my heart pounding so violently I can hear it in my ears. My sister’s text comes through next.

“She’s stable. The babies are fine. She even named one of them after Jackson’s mother.”

I scream into the pillow and throw my phone across the room. The rage. The injustice. The humiliation. All of it consumes me.

This was not how it was supposed to end.

But I am not giving up.

Emily may have her babies. But she is still weak. Vulnerable. And Jackson is confused. Torn. He can still be swayed.

I just need a new plan.

And this time, no one will get in my way.