I woke up to the sound of machines breathing for me.
At first, I thought it was a dream—one of those sterile nightmares where the lights are too white and your body feels heavier than it should. My eyelids fluttered. The ceiling above me was glass, crisscrossed with steel beams and soft-blue LEDs I recognized instantly.
Top floor. Immortal Biotech. Restricted lab.
My lab.
Panic snapped me fully awake.
I tried to sit up. Pain bloomed low in my abdomen—sharp, precise, surgical. I gasped and instinctively pressed my palm to my stomach. Beneath the thin hospital sheet, a small dressing was taped just below my navel. Clean. Recent.
No.
I scanned my body with the reflexes of a scientist. IV in my arm. Monitoring leads on my chest. A catheter I refused to acknowledge. On the screen to my right, a waveform pulsed calmly. Under it, glowing green letters burned into my vision.
Embryo Transfer: Successful.
Implantation Status: Confirmed.
My heart stuttered.
“No,” I whispered. My throat felt raw, scraped dry. “No, no, no—”
The monitors answered me with a steady beep.
Then the wall in front of me lit up.
A black screen flickered to life, resolving into a familiar face—sharp jaw, perfectly tailored suit, eyes the color of cold steel. Caspian Sterling stood in a glass-walled room I recognized as the surveillance suite, his hands folded behind his back like he was observing art.
Or an exhibit.
“Good morning, Dr. Thorne,” he said gently. “You’re awake earlier than expected.”
Something inside me cracked.
“What did you do?” My voice shook despite everything I did to steady it. “Get Aldrich in here. Now.”
Caspian smiled faintly. Not kind. Not cruel. Controlled.
“I’m afraid Dr. Aldrich is a little busy ensuring the embryos remain stable.” He tilted his head. “Congratulations, Iris. You’re pregnant.”
The word slammed into me harder than the anesthesia ever could have.
“You drugged me,” I said. “You cut into me without consent. This is illegal.”
“Is it?” He gestured off-screen.
Dr. Aldrich stepped into view, his white coat immaculate, his eyes bright with the kind of excitement that used to inspire me—and now made my skin crawl.
“You signed the consent, Iris,” he said calmly. “Section thirty-seven of your employment contract.”
“I never consented to this,” I snapped.
Aldrich adjusted his glasses. “You consented to the use of your biological material in life-saving circumstances.”
My stomach dropped.
Caspian’s voice slid in smoothly. “Sterling Syndrome qualifies as terminal. Untreated, I have less than three years.” He paused. “You knew that.”
“Yes,” I said. “I knew you were funding research. Not—this.”
I tried to move again, to swing my legs off the table. Alarms shrieked instantly. Before I could react, two security guards rushed in, gripping my shoulders, forcing me back down. The room spun.
“Don’t,” Caspian warned softly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Get off me!” I screamed, thrashing. “You can’t do this—I’ll terminate it. I’ll rip it out if I have to.”
Silence fell.
Then Caspian leaned closer to the camera.
“The embryos have already implanted,” he said. “If you induce a miscarriage now, Immortal Biotech will sue you for the deliberate destruction of proprietary genetic assets valued at twenty-five million dollars.”
I froze.
Assets.
Not children. Not embryos.
Assets.
My breath came in shallow bursts. “Embryos,” I said slowly. “Plural?”
Aldrich’s smile widened despite himself. He tapped a tablet, and the screen beside me shifted to an ultrasound image—two small, impossible shapes pulsing with faint, rhythmic light.
Two heartbeats.
“Dizygotic twins,” Aldrich said reverently. “Both edited successfully.”
I stared at the screen, nausea clawing up my throat. “Edited how?”
Caspian answered this time. “The Sterling mutation has been removed. In addition, we enhanced several non-pathological markers—cognitive potential, ocular pigmentation, cellular aging resistance.”
I laughed. A sharp, broken sound. “You turned them into products.”
“I turned them into survivors,” he corrected. For the first time, his composure slipped—just a fracture, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. “They’ll live. Unlike my sister.”
Something twisted painfully in my chest—but it wasn’t sympathy. It was fury.
“You’re killing me,” I said hoarsely. “You know what repeated extraction does to my body.”
Aldrich waved a dismissive hand. “Manageable side effects.”
I yanked the IV from my arm, blood spilling down my wrist. “This ends now.”
I barely made it two steps before the guards restrained me again. My vision blurred, tears burning hot and useless.
Caspian turned away from the camera. “Sedate her. Lightly.”
The screen went dark.
When I woke again, I was alone.
A locked door. Frosted glass. A camera in the corner.
Medical Wing. Long-term occupancy.
Soft prison.
Hours later—maybe days—I slipped out of bed and shuffled to the terminal bolted to the wall. My hands trembled as I logged in under my credentials. The system hesitated, then granted access.
I searched the internal database.
Donor Registry.
My name appeared instantly.
Subject ID: 07.
I scrolled.
Six profiles before mine. Six women. Scientists. Researchers. Egg donors.
Status: Deceased.
Cause of death blurred together—organ failure, systemic collapse, “complications.”
My knees gave out.
I slid to the floor, hugging myself as the truth settled like a weight on my chest.
I wasn’t special.
I was replaceable.
And now, growing inside me, were two reasons they would never let me go.