CHAPTER TWELVE
TRISTEN
The confrontation with Aubree left me raw and hollowed out, like someone had taken a melon baller to my insides.
I spent the rest of that evening sitting alone in my office, staring at the scattered appointment records on the floor and trying to understand how everything had gone so wrong.
She was right. I knew she was right. Every word she'd said had landed with the precision of a scalpel, cutting through the justifications I'd been building for months.
I'd failed her. Spectacularly, completely, inexcusably failed her.
The question was how to fix it.
I started by making a list. No more secret appointments. No more middle-of-the-night phone calls with Oakleigh. No more decisions made without consulting Aubree first. Simple, concrete changes that I could implement immediately.
I would do better. I had to do better.
But even as I made my resolutions, a small voice in the back of my head whispered that it might already be too late. That I'd pushed Aubree so far away she might never fully come back.
I shoved that voice down and focused on what I could control.
The next morning, I found Oakleigh in the kitchen making her morning smoothie. Her belly had grown significantly over the past few weeks, rounding out beneath her silk robe in a way that made the pregnancy impossible to ignore.
"We need to talk," I said.
She looked up from the blender with a smile that faltered when she saw my expression. "Is everything okay?"
"Not really." I pulled out a chair at the kitchen island and gestured for her to sit. "I had a long conversation with Aubree last night. About the secret appointments."
Oakleigh's face went carefully blank. "I see."
"She found the records in my office. She knows about all six visits."
"And I suppose she's upset."
"Upset doesn't begin to cover it." I sat down across from her, keeping the island between us like a barrier. "This can't continue, Oakleigh. The private communications, the requests to exclude Aubree from medical appointments, the way things have been handled. It all needs to stop."
Her lower lip trembled, and I braced myself for the tears that always seemed to follow any conversation where I tried to set boundaries.
"I never meant to cause problems between you two," she said softly. "I was just trying to manage my anxiety. The doctor said stress is dangerous for the baby."
"I understand that. But your anxiety can't come at the cost of my marriage."
"Of course not. I would never want that." She reached across the island and placed her hand over mine. Her skin was warm and soft, her touch gentle. "You and Aubree are so important to me. You've become like family."
I withdrew my hand and stood up. "That's actually something else we need to discuss. The boundaries of our relationship going forward."
"What do you mean?"
"Once the baby is born, our arrangement ends. You'll have your recovery period, and then you'll go back to your own life. We'll always be grateful for what you've done, but the day-to-day involvement will stop."
Something flickered across Oakleigh's face. There and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Then her expression settled into wounded acceptance.
"I understand," she said quietly. "I guess I just hoped we could stay close. This has been such a meaningful experience for me."
"And for us. But there are boundaries that need to be respected."
"Of course. Whatever you think is best."
She seemed to take it well. Too well, maybe, but I told myself I was being paranoid. She was an adult. She understood how surrogacy arrangements worked. She'd done this before with other families.
I left for work feeling cautiously optimistic that we'd turned a corner.
That optimism lasted exactly four hours.
Ciara appeared in my doorway around noon, her face tight with barely concealed alarm.
"Sir, you need to see something."
She handed me her tablet, already open to Oakleigh's Instagram account. The account I'd explicitly asked her to stop using for family-related content.
The most recent post made my blood run cold.
It was a photo of Oakleigh in our living room, one hand cradling her belly, the other holding a mug that said "World's Best Surrogate." The caption read:
Some connections are too deep to end when the contract does.
The Wickhams have become my family in every way that matters, and I couldn't imagine my life without them.
I've already told Tristen that I'd be honored to carry more babies for them in the future.
Who knows? Maybe I'll be their exclusive surrogate!
Some women are just meant to help others become parents.
It's my gift, and I'm so grateful to share it with people who appreciate what I can give them.
Unlike some who take motherhood for granted without doing any of the hard work.
The comments section was exploding.
Omg exclusive surrogate? That's so sweet!
Wait, are you shading the wife? That last sentence is kinda sus.
I love how close you've become with Tristen. You can tell he really values you.
"Unlike some who take motherhood for granted"... girl we see you.
Does this mean Aubree can't have kids? That's so sad. Good thing Oakleigh is there to help!
My hands were shaking as I scrolled through the replies. The speculation. The assumptions. The subtle and not-so-subtle jabs at my wife.
And that final line. Unlike some who take motherhood for granted without doing any of the hard work.
She was talking about Aubree. She was publicly implying that my wife, who had endured four years of fertility treatments and three devastating miscarriages, was somehow less deserving of motherhood than a woman who'd been in our lives for eight months.
"When was this posted?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"About two hours ago. It's already been shared extensively. Several media outlets have picked it up."
Of course they had. The Metropolitan Life article had turned us into a public spectacle, and now every tabloid and gossip site was hungry for more drama.
"Cancel my afternoon meetings."
"All of them?"
"Every single one."
I drove home with my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. The rage building in my chest was unlike anything I'd felt in years. I'd tried to be understanding. I'd tried to be patient. I'd given Oakleigh the benefit of the doubt over and over again, and this was how she repaid that grace.
By publicly mocking my wife. By implying she had some permanent claim on our family. By announcing plans we'd never discussed to audiences of thousands.
She was waiting for me when I walked through the door, as if she'd known I was coming. She was sitting in the living room with her hands folded over her belly, her face arranged in that innocent, concerned expression I was starting to recognize as calculated rather than genuine.
"Tristen! You're home early. Is everything alright?"
"Delete the post."
She blinked. "What post?"
"Don't play games with me, Oakleigh. The Instagram post. The one where you announce yourself as our exclusive surrogate and imply my wife doesn't deserve to be a mother. Delete it. Now."
Her expression shifted, the innocent mask slipping just slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just sharing my feelings about our journey."
"We never discussed you being an exclusive surrogate. We haven't even talked about having more children. And that comment about taking motherhood for granted? We both know exactly who you were referring to."
"You're reading too much into it." She stood up, one hand pressed to her lower back in a gesture that might have been discomfort or might have been theater. "I would never say anything negative about Aubree. I adore her."
"Then explain the post."
"It was just a general observation. About how some people don't appreciate what they have. It wasn't directed at anyone specific."
I pulled out my phone and read the caption aloud, word by word, watching her face as I did. She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just stood there with her hand on her belly and her chin slightly raised, as if daring me to call her a liar.
"Delete it," I repeated. "Or I will have my attorneys contact Instagram directly and have it removed for harassment."
Something flickered in her eyes then. Fear, maybe. Or anger. It was gone too quickly to identify.
"Fine." Her voice was clipped now, the sweetness evaporating. "I'll delete it. But I don't understand why you're being so aggressive. I've done nothing but try to help your family, and this is how you treat me?"
"You've done nothing but push boundaries since the day you moved in.
The private texts. The late-night calls.
The secret appointments. The nursery suggestions.
The magazine interview. And now this." I shoved my phone back in my pocket.
"I've made excuses for all of it. I've told myself you were just anxious, just trying to be helpful, just looking for connection. But this stops now. Do you understand?"
Oakleigh's face hardened. For the first time since I'd met her, I saw something beneath the charming exterior. Something cold and calculating.
"I'm carrying your child," she said quietly. "Do you really want to make an enemy of me?"
The words hung in the air between us like a threat.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I've given up my body for nine months to do something your wife couldn't do. It means that without me, you'd never be parents at all. It means that maybe you should show a little more gratitude instead of treating me like some kind of problem to be managed."
"Gratitude doesn't mean letting you walk all over my marriage."
"Your marriage was already crumbling before I got here.
The fertility problems, the distance between you, the way Aubree looks at you like she's waiting for you to disappoint her.
" Oakleigh stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume.
"I'm not the problem, Tristen. I'm just the one who finally made the cracks visible. "
I stepped back, putting distance between us. "Delete the post. Stay away from Aubree. And from now on, all communication goes through my assistant. No more direct contact."
"You can't do that."
"Watch me."
I turned and walked to my office, closing the door behind me and locking it for good measure. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for our family attorney.
"David, I need you to review our surrogacy contract. Specifically, I need to know what options we have if the surrogate begins behaving in ways that are harmful to the intended parents."
"What kind of behavior are we talking about?"
"Public statements implying she has permanent claim to our family. Social media posts targeting my wife. Possible coercion or manipulation."
There was a long pause. "This is serious, Tristen."
"I know."
"I'll pull the contract and have a full analysis ready by tomorrow. In the meantime, document everything. Screenshots, dates, specific statements. The more evidence you have, the stronger your position."
"Thank you."
I hung up and sat down heavily in my desk chair, staring at the wall.
I should tell Aubree. The thought surfaced and I pushed it away. She was already at her breaking point. Learning about this latest violation, about the threat Oakleigh had implied, might push her over the edge entirely.
I would handle it. Quietly, legally, definitively. I would get the attorneys to review the contract, identify our options, and create a plan for managing Oakleigh that didn't require my wife to endure any more stress.
It was the right thing to do. The protective thing.
Even as I thought it, I heard Aubree's voice in my head. When did protecting our baby start meaning you stopped protecting me?
But this was different. This wasn't about protecting the pregnancy. This was about protecting Aubree from a situation that would devastate her. She didn't need to know how ugly things had gotten until I had a solution ready.
I spent the next three hours documenting everything. Screenshots of every Instagram post Oakleigh had made mentioning our family. Copies of her text messages, pulled from my phone records. A timeline of the secret appointments, the late-night calls, the boundary violations I'd foolishly overlooked.
The picture that emerged was damning.
Not just of Oakleigh, but of me.
I'd let this happen. I'd made excuses. I'd prioritized keeping the peace over protecting my marriage, and now I was facing a situation that might not have a clean resolution.
Around seven o'clock, there was a soft knock on my office door.
"Tristen?" Aubree's voice, muffled through the wood. "Are you in there? You missed dinner."
"I'll be out in a minute."
I quickly closed the documents I'd been working on and unlocked the door. Aubree stood in the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression wary.
"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You've been in there for hours."
"Work stuff. A deal that's getting complicated."
The lie came easily, too easily, and I hated myself for it.
She studied my face for a long moment, her blue eyes searching for something. I didn't know if she found it.
"Oakleigh's been in her room all evening," she said finally. "She ordered delivery instead of eating with us. Didn't say a word when I passed her in the hallway."
"We had a conversation this afternoon. About boundaries."
"And?"
"And I think she finally understands that things need to change."
Aubree's expression didn't soften. "Does she? Or did she just cry until you backed down again?"
"No crying this time. We were both very clear about our expectations."
It wasn't exactly a lie. We had been clear. Just not in the way Aubree probably imagined.
"I hope you're right," she said quietly. "Because I don't know how much more of this I can take."
She turned and walked down the hallway toward our bedroom. I watched her go, feeling the weight of everything I wasn't telling her pressing down on my shoulders.
I'm trying to protect you, I wanted to say. I'm trying to fix this without making things worse.
But I'd said those words before, and they'd rung hollow even then.
The truth was, I didn't know if I could fix this at all. I didn't know if the damage was repairable, or if Oakleigh had already destroyed something that could never be rebuilt.
All I knew was that I had to try.
Alone, if necessary.
Because asking Aubree to carry any more of this burden would break her completely.
And losing her was the one outcome I wasn't willing to accept.