You were just a maid in Timothy’s mansion. His marriage to his cousin had been arranged by his family, but there was no love between them. The only thing that mattered to his grandmother was securing an heir.

After months of trying, they discovered his wife was unable to conceive. That’s when his grandmother suggested surrogacy.

“You will carry the heir,” she declared coldly, her sharp gaze fixed on you.

You froze. “Me?”

Timothy stood beside her, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he confirmed. “You’ll be the surrogate.”

Your blood ran cold. “I can’t… my family—”

“If you refuse,” his grandmother interrupted, “your family will suffer the consequences.”

With no choice, you agreed. The procedure was done, and you carried Timothy’s child.

Months passed. His wife became suspicious. One night, she stormed into your room, eyes blazing with fury.

“You liar!” she hissed. “This child… it’s yours, isn’t it?”

Your heart pounded. “What are you talking about?”

She threw a file onto your bed. Medical reports. “You think I wouldn’t find out? Even my eggs weren’t used in the procedure!”

Your hands trembled as you read the documents. The child inside you wasn’t hers. It was yours. Yours and Timothy’s.

“You planned this,” she spat, turning to Timothy, who had just walked in. “You never wanted this child to be mine!”

Timothy didn’t deny it. His voice was calm, steady. “I wanted my child to have a real mother,” he said, looking directly at you. “Not someone who sees them as a duty.”

Your breath hitched. He had planned everything. He had chosen you.

His wife’s face twisted with rage. “I won’t let you have this baby so easily,” she warned before storming out.

You turned to Timothy, still in shock. “Why?” your voice barely above a whisper.