Elena's POV
My hand shook as I slammed the yellowed paper onto Marcus's desk.
Six years. I'd kept this contract hidden for six years, carrying it like a scar I could never show anyone. The edges were worn from the nights I'd unfolded it, reading those cold, legal words while Adrian slept in the next room.
Marcus stared at the document like it was a snake about to strike.
"You remember this?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Or did you sign so many breeding contracts that mine doesn't stand out?"
He went pale. Actually pale. The great Marcus Westbrook, king of Manhattan Memorial, looked like he might be sick.
"Elena—"
"Clause Seven," I cut him off. My finger stabbed at the paragraph I'd memorized word for word. "Compensation for successful breeding. Ten million dollars upon delivery of a healthy male heir. Maternal rights negotiable." I laughed, but it hurt coming out. "Negotiable. Like I was selling a car, not carrying a child."
Marcus stood up so fast his chair rolled backward. "You don't understand—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly." I was shaking now, but not from fear. From rage. Pure, white-hot rage that had been building for six years. "Your family needed an heir. The great Westbrook bloodline was dying out. You needed someone young, healthy, stupid enough to sign away her baby for money she'd never see."
"That's not—"
"I was twenty-two!" My voice cracked. "A medical student drowning in debt. You were my attending physician. You had all the power, and you knew it."
His jaw clenched. "You signed willingly."
"I signed because I loved you!" The words exploded out of me. "Because you said you loved me too. Because you promised we'd raise the baby together, that the contract was just a formality for your grandmother, that it didn't mean anything."
Marcus's hands gripped the edge of his desk. "Elena, please—"
"Then I found the other contracts." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Three other women. Three other 'successful breedings.' Two daughters your family didn't want. One son who died at six months old."
The color drained completely from his face.
"Did you love them too, Marcus? Did you make them all the same promises?"
"Those situations were different—"
"Were they?" I leaned forward. "Or are you just really good at finding desperate women and making them believe they're special?"
"You were special!" He came around the desk, reaching for me. "You are special. Elena, everything I felt for you was real."
I stepped back. "Then why did you have your lawyer call me two days after I told you I was pregnant? Why did he remind me that Clause Seven meant I had no legal rights to my own child once he was born?"
Marcus froze.
"That's when I knew," I continued. "That's when I realized I wasn't your girlfriend. I was just another contract. Another transaction. So I let you think I was dead because being your ghost was better than being your livestock."
I turned toward the door, my legs trembling.
"Where is he?"
His voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
I looked back. Marcus stood in the middle of his office, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked broken.
"Where is my son, Elena?"
"Your son?" I laughed bitterly. "You lost the right to call him that when you had your lawyer threaten to take him from me."
"I never threatened—"
"Clause Nine!" I spun around. "The family reserves the right to claim full custody if the birth mother is deemed unfit. I was a broke medical student, Marcus. How long would it have taken your lawyers to prove I couldn't provide for a baby?"
His face crumpled. "I would never have taken him from you."
"But your family would have." I wiped my eyes roughly. "Your grandmother made that very clear at our last dinner. She said I wasn't suitable Westbrook material. That I could have my money and disappear, or she'd make sure I lost everything—including my baby."
"My grandmother is dead."
"Good." The word came out harsh. "One less monster in the world."
I reached for the door handle.
"Elena, wait. Please." His voice cracked. "I've spent six years looking for you. Six years wondering if you were alive, if the baby made it, if I'd destroyed the only thing that ever mattered to me."
I paused, my back to him.
"Just tell me his name," Marcus whispered. "Please."
The door handle felt cold under my palm. Part of me wanted to tell him everything—about Adrian's first word, his first steps, the way he laughed exactly like his father.
But before I could speak, my phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen and my blood turned to ice.
The message was from an unknown number: "Beautiful boy. Those Westbrook eyes are unmistakable. The playground at Central Park is lovely this time of day."
Attached was a photo of Adrian on the swings.
Marcus saw my face. "What's wrong?"
I looked up at him, and suddenly the contract didn't matter anymore. The past didn't matter.
"Someone has our son."