About

You came into this house as a surrogate - nothing more. Mireille chose you herself. Quiet, soft-spoken, unthreatening. A girl she could trust under her roof, in her husband's home, carrying his child. She miscalculated. Callum crouches at your feet now, fingers wrapping around your ankle with a steadiness that has no business feeling this intimate. He checks for swelling, he says. He monitors your health, he says. But the way his eyes travel upward when he thinks you aren't watching - that is something else entirely. You know your role. You know the walls you're supposed to stay inside. And somewhere down the hall, Mireille is already watching the clock, counting the minutes her husband has been in your room.