Surrogate Mom's Battle

The donations were coming in steadily when the first screenshot appeared in the chat.

"Look at this!" someone named @TruthSeeker posted. "Your husband transferred $3 MILLION to Ariyah Lawrence TWO DAYS AGO!"

My finger froze above the screen. What?

Another screenshot followed—a bank statement showing a massive transfer with the memo "support payments."

Then another. And another.

"LIAR!" the chat exploded. "She's begging for money while hiding millions!"

"No wonder she's so desperate—she's trying to scam us!"

"Where's the real mom? This is a setup!"

I stared at the screenshots, my mind refusing to process what I was seeing. Three million dollars? Two days ago?

"Cooper?" I whispered, looking up to find him standing in the doorway of the waiting room. "Is this real?"

His face remained impassive as he stepped closer, glancing at my phone. "You shouldn't believe everything you see online, Sariyah."

"But these are bank statements—"

"Edited screenshots," he cut me off smoothly. "You know how easy that is."

My hands trembled as I ended the livestream. The donations had reached $2,700—nowhere near enough, but it had been something. Now, because of these screenshots, everyone thought I was a fraud.

"Who is Ariyah Lawrence?" I demanded, following him into the hospital corridor.

"A business partner," he replied, checking his watch. "I owed her money for a project."

"Three million dollars worth of project?"

Cooper sighed, his expression shifting to one of practiced patience. "You know I don't discuss business with you because of your... emotional instability."

"My what?"

"Look at yourself right now," he said, gesturing to my tear-stained face. "You're hysterical. That's why I handle the finances."

I felt like I'd been slapped. Emotional instability? This man was gaslighting me while our daughter lay dying.

---

Later that night, after Estrella's condition had stabilized temporarily, I slipped away to investigate.

Ariyah Lawrence. The name nagged at me, familiar yet elusive.

I pulled out my phone and typed her name into the search bar. The hospital's website appeared first—she was a doctor here. At the same hospital where Estrella was fighting for her life.

Scrolling through her social media profiles revealed more. Recent photos of her at charity galas, medical conferences—and standing next to Cooper at a dinner party just three weeks ago.

They looked intimate in the photos, his hand resting casually on her lower back, her smile directed at him rather than the camera.

My stomach twisted as I saved the images to my phone.

The next morning, I spotted her in the hospital cafeteria—tall, elegant, with glossy black hair pulled into a sleek bun. She wore scrubs with the hospital logo embroidered on the chest pocket.

"Dr. Lawrence?" I approached her table cautiously.

She looked up, recognition flickering in her eyes before settling into cool indifference. "Mrs. Webb. How... unexpected to see you here."

"You know who I am."

"Of course." She sipped her coffee. "Cooper and I go way back."

"Cooper told me you're a business partner."

Something like amusement crossed her face. "Did he? That's one way to describe it."

I slid into the seat across from her. "What's another way?"

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Perhaps Estrella's accident is nature's way of correcting a mistake."

My blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

"Just that..." She glanced around before meeting my eyes again. "Some things aren't meant to be. Children included."

---

I drove home in a daze, my mind racing with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

When I pulled into our driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar luxury car parked beside Cooper's BMW.

Something was wrong.

I rushed inside to find suitcases—my suitcases—lined up by the front door.

"Cooper?" I called out, my voice echoing through the empty foyer.

"In here," came his mother's voice from upstairs.

I climbed the stairs to find Mrs. Fernandez directing movers who were carrying boxes into the master bedroom—boxes labeled with names that weren't mine.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

Mrs. Fernandez turned to me with cold eyes. "Ariyah's moving in. She needs to be close to the hospital."

"Moving in? This is my house!"

"Not anymore." She straightened, adjusting her pearl necklace. "You're no longer needed here, Sariyah."

Through the open bedroom door, I could see Ariyah arranging her clothes in what had been my closet just hours ago.

"You should leave with some dignity," Mrs. Fernandez continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Before we call the police for trespassing."

I stood frozen as Ariyah walked past me, her shoulder brushing mine deliberately.

"Hello, Sariyah," she said sweetly. "I'll take good care of everything."

Everything—including my husband, my home, and possibly my daughter.