The Devil's Contractual Bride

Evelyn’s POV.

 “You’ve finally been useful,” Clarissa said, as she stood at my ward door, champagne in hand like a scepter. 

Behind her, Father and stepmother followed. The room went cold.

I had been in the hospital for the past twenty-six hours, and none of them had shown up.

I had driven myself to the hospital despite being in labor, and now they were walking in, acting like everything was fine.

I knew they never liked me, but not to this extent. I held my baby closer, ignoring the sting of the IV.

 “Evelyn, you’ve performed a great service,” my step mum said. 

A service? I was the one who had just given birth but it seems like my whole family was going crazy. 

“What service?”

Before my step mum could answer, Clarissa burst into laughter.

 I swallowed hard.

“The surrogacy contract, silly. For me and Vincent.” She pouted, her voice laced with mockery. 

I chuckled as I looked at my father, who wouldn’t look back. I looked at Clarissa, at her perfect smile.

“You’ve always wanted Vincent,” I said. My voice was laced with tiredness. “There is no contract. Vincent and I are engaged out of love and this child isn't any surrogacy. Please, I just had a baby. Let me rest.”

My gaze flickered to my father's face until his eyes finally flicked to mine.

 Just as he always has been, never once defending me. Sometimes I even wonder if he’s truly my father.

 “Get out! All of you! Get out right now!”

But no one moved, instead, Clarissa sat down, crossed her legs and smiled mischievously. 

“My little medical issue, remember? The doctors said I could never carry. But you… you were always so sturdy. You were just the oven.” Her smile widened. “Vincent didn’t have the heart to tell you himself. He’s too kind.”

I shook my head, disgusted.

Clarissa had always had a crush on Vincent, but he never looked her way. He had always been attracted to me, and we decided to have a child before officially getting married. Clarissa never liked our union.

 “That’s a lie! Vincent loves me. We’re getting married. This is our baby.”

“Oh, Evelyn.” my step mom’s voice was a sigh. “You really thought you were that special?”

“The Thornes needed an heir. Clarissa is the appropriate choice. You? Just a paid womb.”

The word was a spark in the dry tinder of my exhaustion. I felt as if I were losing my mind.

“Paid womb?” My voice broke, high and raw. I just couldn't take it any longer. “Get out! He is my son! Mine!”

My scream tore through the room. My baby, startled from his doze, began to cry.

“Shhh,” I whispered, my voice a broken rasp. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely control them. I forced them to be gentle. I touched his cheek with the back of my knuckle.

“Shhh, my love. Mummy’s here,” I breathed. I bent my head, bringing my face close to his, so he could feel my warmth, my breath. “Mummy’s right here.”

A lone tear escaped my eyes.

The door opened again.

Vincent.

For a heartbeat, my world snapped back into place. He was here. He would see me. He would see us. He would stop this.

He stood in the doorway, his winter coat dusted with rain, his face a handsome, hollow mask. 

He did not look at me. His eyes scanned the room, passing over my tear-streaked face, skipping over the wailing child in my arms, and landing on Clarissa. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Then he turned. A nurse stood behind him, her face impassive. 

“Take the infant to the neonatal suite for Mrs. Thorne’s final inspection,” he said. His voice, cold.

I couldn’t process it. The nurse reached for my baby. 

I shot a look at Vincent, he looked away. And then she touched him. Everything inside me clenched

“NO!” I yelled. I scrambled back, the rails of the bed digging into my spine, my arms locking around my baby. “You can’t! Vincent, look at me! Look at him!”

He wouldn’t. His jaw was a hard line, his eyes fixed on the blank wall behind me.  

She pulled. A silent, horrific tug-of-war began over the body of my child. His cries grew frantic. 

My IV line yanked against my taped hand, a bright bolt of pain, my heart racing.

I sobbed, my fingers clutching at the soft cotton, at the tiny foot I could feel through it.

And then I saw it.

As Clarissa stepped forward, placing a proprietary hand on Vincent’s arm, the light from the ceiling caught the ring on her finger. 

It wasn’t a new, flashy thing. It was an emerald. Old-fashioned, set in delicate, swirling gold. My emerald. My grandmother’s. 

Vincent had slipped it onto my finger on a hillside covered in clover, his voice filled with promise. It matches the green in your eyes when you laugh, he’d said.

It sat on her finger. Green and cold and utterly wrong.

My grip, for a heartbeat, went slack.

The nurse felt it. She pulled the bundle, my son, free from my arms.

The emptiness was instant and total. I gasped, my arms convulsing around nothing.

As the nurse hurried out, my son’s cries fading down the hallway.

My step mom leaned in. 

 Her lips were in my ear, her whisper meant only for me.

“You should be grateful we let you carry on with your little fantasy,” she murmured, her voice dripping with a poison sweetness. “Stress is so bad for the womb. We couldn’t risk a complication.” She paused, letting the horror settle deep into my bones. “And really, dear… you must have suspected. The embryo wasn’t yours. It was Vincent and Clarissa’s genetic material. A perfect match. You were just th

e host.”

She leaned back, with a smirk on her face.

My eyes widened as her words sank in. I was just a surrogate!