Chapter 3

The first thing Dorcas noticed was the ceiling. White, with a brown water stain in one

corner. A recovery room, not the delivery suite.

The second thing was her stomach.

Her hand slid under the blanket. Soft. Hollow. Wrong.

She sat up too fast. The room swung, and pain drove a nail behind her left eye. When it

cleared she saw the plastic cradle beside the bed, its blanket folded into a neat square.

Empty.

“No.” Her voice cracked. “No, no—” She hit the call button again and again.

A nurse came in, the young one with tired eyes. She did not quite meet Dorcas’s gaze.

“Where is my baby?”

“Miss Starling, please lie back. You’ve had a head injury—”

“I had a baby. I gave birth yesterday. Where is he?”

The nurse’s mouth tightened. “I’m not able to discuss that. Someone from

administration will speak with you.”

“Look at me. Look at my stitches. I did not imagine him.”

“I know,” the nurse whispered, so quietly Dorcas almost missed it. Then she

straightened and left.

Dorcas grabbed her phone from the bedside table and called Isaiah. It rang once and

went to voicemail. She called Emily. The call would not connect. She had been blocked.

The door opened again. For one wild moment she thought: Isaiah. Sorry. A mistake.

It was Michael.Her father stood in the doorway in a charcoal suit, checking his watch. Laura came in

behind him wearing sunglasses indoors, and Daniel after her, thumbs already moving

over his phone.

“Dad.” Dorcas’s throat closed. “They took him. Isaiah and Emily took my baby—”

“I know what happened.” Michael’s voice was cool and even, the voice he used on

difficult staff. “Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve had this morning? Reporters.

Isaiah’s lawyer. Half the board at the club.”

“Isaiah hit me. He hit me and he took my son.”

“You signed an agreement, Dorcas.” Michael adjusted his cuff. “A surrogacy waiver. All

rights surrendered. Isaiah’s family has been very reasonable, considering the scene you

caused.”

Dorcas stared at him. “I never signed anything. I didn’t even know I was a surrogate

until yesterday.” Her voice dropped. “And how do you know what I signed? I haven’t

seen it.”

Something flickered across his face and was gone. “Isaiah’s lawyer sent it over this

morning.”

“Michael,” Laura said, still looking at her phone, “the car is double-parked.”

“I have a lunch at one.”

“She looks terrible,” Daniel said, to nobody.

Dorcas looked from one face to the next. She had spent years believing that if she were

patient and quiet and good enough, one of them would finally look at her the way Isaiah

used to.

“He took my child,” she said again, very quietly. “I need you to help me.”

She reached for his sleeve. Michael stepped back, smoothly, the way you avoid a puddle.“What I need,” he said, “is for you to put this right. Call Isaiah. Apologise to his family.

Say you were emotional, hormonal, whatever you like. Then come home and we will let

this blow over.”

“Apologise.”

“Or,” he said, and for the first time he looked straight at her, “don’t come home.”

He turned and walked out. Laura’s heels clicked after him. Daniel followed, still

scrolling.

Nobody looked back.

She was still staring at the door when a woman in a grey suit came in without knocking,

carrying a tablet. “Miss Starling? Patient accounts. Your bed is needed, so you’ll be

discharged this afternoon.”

“I want to see my son’s records.”

“There are no records for a child under your name.” The woman said it as though

reading from a menu. “Only this.”

She turned the tablet around.

A surrogacy agreement. Eleven pages. At the bottom, a signature.

Dorcas’s signature. Every loop. Every slant. The date was nine months ago. A purple

notary stamp sat beside it, slightly smudged.

“I never signed this. Look at the date. Look at the stamp, that’s not—”

“I’m only from patient accounts, Miss Starling. It’s notarised.” The woman’s phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and set the tablet down on the blanket. “I need to take this.

Don’t go anywhere.”

She stepped into the corridor.

Dorcas did not think. Her phone was already in her hand. She photographed the

signature. The date. The purple stamp. The first page, the last page.Click. Click. Click.

Heels tapped back toward the door. She slid the phone under the blanket and put her

hands over it, and her heart hammered against her stitches.

The woman returned. She looked at the tablet, then at Dorcas.

“Everything all right?”

“Perfectly,” Dorcas said.

“Your hospital charges have been settled by the intended parents. You may collect your

belongings at the desk.” She picked up the tablet. “If you wish to dispute it, you’ll need a

lawyer.”

“I’ll find one.”

“I’m sure you will,” the woman said, and left.

Dorcas dressed with shaking hands. Her stitches pulled at every movement. She

gathered her few things into a plastic hospital bag, and at the nurses’ station nobody

looked up. A security guard walked her to the exit as if she might steal something.

No family. No money. But in her pocket, three blurry photographs.

Outside, the afternoon sun was a slap of its own.

Nobody is coming for you, Isaiah had said.

She stood on the pavement with one bag and nowhere to go. A black car was idling at the

kerb. As she watched, the driver stepped out and opened the rear door.

“Miss Starling?”

She took a step back. “Who are you?”

“Mr Allen asked me to wait for you.”

“I don’t know any Mr Allen.”“He said you’d say that.” The driver’s face was calm. “He told me to tell you he knows

what they did.”

Dorcas looked back at the hospital doors, where nobody was coming. Then she climbed

into the car.

The locks clicked shut.