"Kristoff... please..."
Isobel’s voice rasped out in a broken whisper, so thin and fragile it sounded as though the next breath might be her last.
Sweat clung to her pale skin, damp strands of black hair plastered to her temples. Her body trembled violently from exhaustion after twelve hours of unbearable labor, every muscle hollowed out by pain. Tears slid silently down her cheeks as she stretched a weak hand toward the man standing near the bed.
"Please... just let me hold him once," she begged, her lips quivering. "Only for a moment. Please..."
The newborn was bundled tightly in a white blanket, cradled securely in Kristoff’s arms. Dressed in green surgical scrubs and a matching cap, he stood tall and composed, untouched by the agony that had nearly destroyed her. While Isobel looked like a woman barely clinging to consciousness, Kristoff appeared coldly immaculate.
His eyes met hers, but there was no warmth in them. No tenderness. No gratitude.
For the briefest second, his grip on the baby loosened, as if he might actually give in. But the softness vanished almost instantly. His jaw hardened.
"No." His tone was sharp and final. "Our arrangement ends here, Isobel."
Her face crumpled.
"I already transferred five million to your account as second payment," he continued flatly, as though discussing a business transaction instead of tearing a mother away from her child. "You’ll be well taken care of until you recover."
Then, without another glance at her trembling outstretched hand, he turned toward the door.
Isobel’s breathing hitched in panic. "Kristoff, please—!"
He stopped, though only to look back at her with a chilling stare.
"Never appear before Charlotte or my child." His voice dropped lower, colder, carrying a quiet threat that froze the entire room. "If you do, you already know what I’m capable of."
A tear slipped from Isobel’s eye as she stared at him in disbelief. He used to be so gentle with her even if what they had was just a transaction.
"Honor the agreement," he said mercilessly, "and your life will remain comfortable."
Then his gaze shifted toward the doctor and nurses gathered around the bed.
"If a single detail of this leaves this room," he warned, his expression darkening, "every one of you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Dalton," they answered in a nervous chorus.
Silence swallowed the room after he left.
Isobel could do nothing except watch helplessly as the man carried her baby farther and farther away. Her fingers curled weakly into the bedsheets, reaching for emptiness long after he disappeared beyond the door.
At that moment, she did not know which pain was worse—the horrific agony of twelve hours of labor, or the unbearable realization that the child she had carried for nine months had been taken from her forever.
Her son would grow up never knowing her face.Never hearing her voice.Never calling her mother.
The doctor and nurses avoided her eyes, their expressions filled with pity. They all knew her story. Knew how desperation had driven her into becoming a surrogate for one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.
But no amount of money could soften what had just happened to her.
Before anyone could offer comfort, Isobel’s body finally gave out. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped into unconsciousness with tears still staining her face.
...
When Isobel finally opened her eyes, it took her several seconds to realize that she was no longer in the luxurious hospital suite she had been placed in before the delivery.
The silk curtains were gone. The fresh flowers. The spacious room with polished furniture and private attendants waiting at every call.
In their place was a cramped private room with dull cream walls, a narrow bed, and a single flickering fluorescent light overhead. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and loneliness.
For a long moment, she simply stared at the ceiling.
Then a hollow laugh escaped her lips.
"So this is how it is..." she whispered bitterly.
The truth settled over her chest with suffocating weight.
She had served her purpose.
Now that the baby had been delivered, she no longer mattered.
The expensive room, the careful treatment, the soft voices asking whether she needed anything—they had never been for her. They had only existed because she had been carrying something valuable inside her womb. The moment the child was taken from her, all the kindness vanished just like him.
Like an object returned after use, she had been quietly moved aside.
Discarded.
Ysobel closed her eyes tightly, but the ache inside her only deepened. Her body still felt wrecked from labor, every limb heavy with exhaustion. She had cried herself to sleep sometime during the night without even realizing it.
Now her chest throbbed painfully.
When she touched herself gingerly, she winced. Her breasts had become swollen and painfully engorged, heavy with milk her body had produced for a baby she would never get to hold, not even once.
A sharp ache pierced through her heart.
Even her own body had not yet accepted that her child was gone.
Her milk came in because somewhere deep inside her, her body still believed her baby would be brought to her arms. That she would cradle him close, feed him, soothe him when he cried.
But there would be no hungry cries.
No tiny fingers curling around hers.
Nothing.
Isobel bit down hard on her trembling lip to stop herself from breaking apart again. If she did not express the milk soon, she could develop a fever. Yet the thought of pumping it out made her chest tighten painfully. It felt cruel—like emptying away the last remaining proof that her baby had once belonged to her, even for a little while.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright despite the soreness between her legs and the weakness in her body.
If she could not give her milk to her own child... perhaps another baby needed it.
Perhaps that was the only purpose left for her now.