Chapter 2 Sleeping in Different Dreams

I never thought marriage would involve so much surveillance technology.

Three months into our "arrangement," I discovered the ovulation monitoring system installed in our bedroom—sensors in the mattress tracking my body temperature, an app on Daniel's phone alerting him to my fertile days. The discovery came when I found a technician upgrading the software while I was supposed to be at the hospital.

"Mr. Kingsley authorized the installation," the man explained nervously when I confronted him. "It's the latest in fertility tracking."

I smiled tightly. "Of course he did."

That night, I confronted Daniel in his home office, slapping the system's manual onto his desk.

"This is invasive, even for you," I said, arms crossed.

Daniel didn't look up from his laptop. "It's efficient. Time is something Sophie doesn't have in abundance."

"I'm a doctor. I know when I'm ovulating."

"And yet, after three months, you're still not pregnant." His eyes finally met mine, cool and assessing. "One might think you're still finding ways to sabotage our agreement."

I leaned across his desk. "One might think you should remember that I'm a human being, not a breeding machine."

"A human being who signed a contract." He closed his laptop. "A contract that's making your research possible. How is the new pediatric wing coming along, by the way?"

The question was a deliberate reminder of what was at stake. The Kingsley Pediatric Hematology Research Center was already under construction, with state-of-the-art equipment being installed. Equipment that could save countless lives.

"We're ahead of schedule," I said stiffly.

"Good." He stood, circling the desk until he was standing uncomfortably close. "Then perhaps we should focus on keeping our end of the bargain ahead of schedule as well."

I stepped back. "I won't be monitored like a lab rat, Daniel."

Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or grudging respect. "Fine. No sensors. But regular fertility tracking at the clinic."

"With Dr. Chen," I insisted. "Not your personal physician."

"Acceptable."

It was a small victory in our ongoing cold war. But what Daniel didn't know was that I had perfected the art of sample switching during my residency. Each time Dr. Chen took blood to verify my hormone levels, I ensured the results showed exactly what Daniel expected to see—a woman actively trying to conceive—while maintaining my contraceptive regimen in secret.

Living with Daniel was an exercise in compartmentalization. We maintained separate bedrooms except for the calculated nights of my "fertility window." The household staff treated me with distant courtesy, clearly aware of the transactional nature of our marriage. I spent most of my time at the hospital or in the small laboratory Daniel had built adjacent to the house, ostensibly so I could monitor Sophie's condition more closely.

Sophie. The innocent heart of this twisted arrangement. Despite my initial resistance, I found myself growing attached to the quiet, solemn child with eyes too old for her five years. She didn't know I was her biological mother—none of us had determined how to explain that particular complication—but she seemed drawn to me nonetheless.

"Your hair is pretty," she told me one evening as I sat by her bed, reviewing her latest test results. She reached out to touch a strand that had escaped my usual tight bun. "It looks like mine used to."

Before the chemotherapy had taken it. My heart clenched.

"It'll grow back even prettier once you're better," I promised, though we both knew her chances were dwindling by the day.

"Daddy says you're going to give me a brother or sister," she said, her small fingers tracing patterns on the blanket. "And they're going to help make me better."

I froze. "Did he explain how?"

She nodded. "Cord blood. From the umbilical cord. He showed me pictures in his medical books." A small smile touched her lips. "He says I'm going to be the best big sister ever."

The innocent hope in her eyes made my carefully constructed walls crumble slightly. This child—my child, biologically—was suffering. And I had the power to help her, even if it meant surrendering to Daniel's machinations.

That night, I flushed my birth control pills down the toilet.

Our first wedding anniversary arrived with little fanfare. Daniel was away on business—or so I thought—and I spent the day performing a bone marrow biopsy on a seven-year-old with aplastic anemia. By the time I returned to the Kingsley mansion, it was past midnight, my feet aching and my mind exhausted.

I was surprised to find lights on in the kitchen.

"Happy anniversary," Daniel said, standing at the counter with two glasses of wine. He looked as tired as I felt, his usually immaculate appearance slightly rumpled.

"You remembered," I said, surprised.

"It's on my calendar." He handed me a glass. "One year down, however many more to go until mission accomplished."

I should have been offended by his clinical assessment of our marriage, but honesty was one of the few things I appreciated about Daniel. No pretense, no false sentimentality.

"Sophie's latest numbers aren't good," I said, taking a large sip of wine. "The experimental treatment is barely holding the line."

Daniel's jaw tightened. "I know. I've been reviewing options with specialists in Sweden today."

"That's where you were?"

He nodded. "There's a clinic there developing a new approach to cord blood banking. More efficient extraction methods."

Always planning ahead. Always assuming he would get his way eventually. It was infuriating and, in some bizarre way, admirable.

"We need to talk about Victoria," I said suddenly.

His expression hardened. "What about her?"

"She came to see me at the hospital today." I set down my glass. "She said some... concerning things."

"Such as?"

"She implied you chose me specifically because of my HLA compatibility with Sophie. That you've known about it longer than you let on."

Daniel's expression remained carefully neutral. "And you believe her?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore." I massaged my temples. "She said you had my DNA analyzed years ago, after the anonymous donation. That this whole marriage was planned from the moment Sophie got sick again."

He was silent for a long moment. "Would it matter if it were true? The outcome is the same."

"It would matter to me," I said quietly. "It would mean everything between us has been an even bigger lie than I thought."

"Not everything is a lie, Bella." He moved closer, his voice dropping. "My determination to save Sophie is real. My respect for your work is real."

"But not respect for me as a person," I countered. "Just as a means to an end."

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, frustration, or perhaps something deeper. Before I could analyze it, he closed the distance between us, his hand cupping my face with unexpected gentleness.

"You are not just a means to an end," he said, his voice low and intense. "You never were."

Then his lips were on mine, tasting of wine and desperation. I should have pushed him away. Instead, I found myself responding, months of tension and suppressed emotion erupting in a kiss that burned through my carefully constructed defenses.

What followed was nothing like our previous clinical encounters. There was anger in our lovemaking, certainly—my nails leaving marks on his back, his teeth grazing my shoulder—but something else too. Something neither of us was prepared to acknowledge in the harsh light of day.

Two weeks later, I stood frozen in the operating room, scalpel suspended above my patient's abdomen, as a wave of nausea crashed over me.

"Dr. Montgomery?" My resident looked concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Take over, Dr. Reeves," I managed, stepping back from the table. "I need a minute."

I barely made it to the scrub sink before emptying the contents of my stomach. As I rinsed my mouth, cold realization dawned.

That night, I performed the test in the privacy of my bathroom. Two pink lines appeared almost immediately. I sank to the floor, test clutched in my trembling hand.

Pregnant. With Daniel Kingsley's child. Our anniversary night had accomplished what months of calculated attempts had failed to do.

I should have felt victorious—this was what I'd decided I wanted, after all. Sophie's best chance. But as I pressed my hand to my still-flat stomach, all I felt was dread.

Because in that moment, I remembered Victoria's warning: "Do you think he chose you for love? He chose you for your genetic compatibility. You're nothing but a walking, talking petri dish to him."

And now, there was life growing inside me. A life created for the sole purpose of saving another.