CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AUbrEE
The dress was champagne silk, custom made to hide the parts of my body I'd learned to hate over four years of fertility treatments.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom, tugging at the fabric where it pulled across my hips, and tried to convince myself I looked elegant rather than desperate.
The designer had done her best. Empire waist to minimize my midsection.
Strategic draping to camouflage the weight that clung to my thighs no matter how many spin classes I forced myself to attend.
A plunging neckline that drew the eye upward, toward the one part of my body that still looked the way it used to.
I looked like a woman trying very hard to be beautiful.
Oakleigh, I knew, wouldn't have to try at all.
"You ready?" Tristen appeared in the doorway, already dressed in his tuxedo. He looked devastating, the way he always did in formal wear. The sharp lines of the jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, and the crisp white shirt made his hazel eyes seem almost golden in the lamplight.
"Almost." I fastened my diamond earrings with trembling fingers. "Just need to find my clutch."
"You look stunning."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to see what he claimed to see when he looked at me. But the mirror showed me the truth, and the truth was that I looked tired and swollen and nothing like the woman he'd married eight years ago.
"Thank you," I said anyway, because what else was there to say?
The Wickham Foundation's annual gala was the biggest event on our social calendar.
Three hundred guests, national press coverage, a silent auction that raised millions for fertility awareness programs. It was my baby, in a way.
I'd designed every aspect of it after our third miscarriage, pouring my grief into something that might actually help other couples like us.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. A chance to show the world that the Wickhams were united, that the surrogacy was progressing smoothly, that our family was stronger than ever.
Instead, I felt like I was walking into a firing squad.
Oakleigh was waiting for us in the living room when we came downstairs.
She was wearing red. Of course she was wearing red.
A form-fitting gown that hugged her pregnant belly like a caress, making her look fertile and glowing and absolutely fucking radiant.
Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant twist, and her makeup was flawless in that natural way that took hours to achieve.
She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.
I looked like her frumpy chaperone.
"Don't you both look amazing," she said, beaming at us. Her eyes lingered on Tristen just a beat too long before sliding to me with practiced warmth. "Aubree, that color is gorgeous on you."
"Thank you." The words felt like glass in my throat. "You look lovely too."
The car ride to the venue was excruciating.
Oakleigh sat in the back with me while Tristen took the front passenger seat, and she spent the entire thirty minutes chattering about how excited she was for tonight, how honored she felt to be included, how grateful she was for everything we'd done for her.
Every word made my skin crawl.
I watched Tristen's reflection in the rearview mirror, looking for any sign that he found her behavior as exhausting as I did. But his face was carefully neutral, his responses polite and measured. The face he wore for business meetings and difficult clients.
When had he started treating our home life like a negotiation?
The gala was already in full swing when we arrived. Photographers lined the entrance, their flashbulbs exploding in a blinding cascade as we stepped onto the red carpet. I plastered on my foundation smile and let Tristen guide me forward with his hand on my lower back.
"Mr. Wickham! Mrs. Wickham! Over here!"
We posed for the cameras, angling our bodies the way we'd been taught by media consultants years ago. Tristen's arm slid around my waist, pulling me close, and for a moment I let myself pretend that everything was fine. That we were still the couple we used to be, united and unshakeable.
Then Oakleigh appeared at Tristen's other side, and the photographers went absolutely wild.
"Oakleigh! Look this way!"
"Can we get one of all three of you?"
"Tristen, put your arm around her too!"
I watched my husband hesitate for just a fraction of a second before complying.
His other arm extended to rest on Oakleigh's shoulder, and she leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her hand came up to rest on her belly, and she tilted her face toward his with an expression of pure adoration.
The flashbulbs exploded again, capturing the moment from every possible angle.
I stood there with my fake smile frozen on my face, feeling like a mannequin someone had placed in the wrong display.
Inside the venue, I threw myself into hostess mode.
I greeted donors, thanked volunteers, made small talk with board members about the foundation's upcoming initiatives.
It was easier to perform when I had a role to play.
Mrs. Wickham, philanthropist and advocate.
A woman with purpose, even if that purpose felt increasingly hollow.
Tristen stayed by my side for most of the evening, his hand finding mine whenever we moved through the crowd.
But I noticed the way his eyes kept drifting toward Oakleigh, tracking her movements through the room.
She'd attracted a small crowd of admirers, mostly men, who seemed fascinated by the beautiful pregnant woman in the red dress.
"She's making quite an impression," someone murmured behind me.
I turned to find Genevieve Ashworth, a society columnist whose coverage could make or break a charity event. She was watching Oakleigh with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator scenting blood.
"She's been wonderful," I said automatically. "We're so grateful to have her."
"I'm sure you are." Genevieve's smile didn't reach her eyes. "It must be so difficult, though. Watching another woman carry your child. Especially one who looks like that."
The words sliced through me like razors.
"If you'll excuse me," I managed. "I need to check on the auction."
I made it to the bathroom before the tears started. I locked myself in a stall and pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting to control the sobs that wanted to tear out of my chest. My mascara was probably ruined. My carefully applied makeup was probably streaking down my cheeks. But I couldn't stop.
Especially one who looks like that.
Like I didn't already know. Like I hadn't spent every day of the past eight months comparing myself to Oakleigh and finding myself lacking. She was everything I used to be before the hormones and the grief and the endless disappointments carved away pieces of me I was still trying to find.
I cleaned myself up as best I could and returned to the gala just in time for the speeches.
Tristen was already at the podium when I slipped back into the ballroom. He was thanking the donors, acknowledging the staff, laying out the foundation's goals for the coming year. I found my seat at the head table and tried to focus on his words instead of the sick churning in my stomach.
"And finally," he said, "I want to thank someone who has become an important part of our family's journey this year."
My heart stopped.
"Oakleigh Scott has shown us what true generosity looks like. She's given us the greatest gift anyone could give, and we are forever grateful."
Polite applause rippled through the room. I clapped along with everyone else, my palms stinging from the force of it.
Then Oakleigh stood up.
She wasn't supposed to speak. That wasn't part of the program. I would have known if it was part of the program because I had approved every single element of tonight's event.
But she was walking toward the podium anyway, her red dress flowing behind her like blood on water. Tristen looked surprised but stepped aside to make room for her at the microphone.
"I wasn't planning to say anything tonight," Oakleigh began, her voice carrying clearly through the speakers. "But I feel like I need to express just how much this experience has meant to me."
The room went quiet. Three hundred people, hanging on her every word.
"When I agreed to become a surrogate for the Wickhams, I had no idea what I was signing up for.
I thought it would be a business arrangement.
Professional. Detached." She paused, pressing her hand to her belly in that gesture she'd perfected.
"But Tristen has been so much more than I ever expected. "
My blood turned to ice.
"He has been my rock through this pregnancy. Every midnight panic attack, every scary doctor's appointment, every moment when I felt alone and afraid, he was there. Holding my hand. Talking me through the fear. Making me feel like I mattered."
She turned to look at him, her eyes shimmering with tears that caught the light.
"I don't know what I would have done without him. I honestly don't. He's the most caring, compassionate, devoted man I've ever met, and your foundation is so lucky to have him as its leader."
The applause that followed was thunderous.
I sat frozen in my chair, watching my husband embrace the woman who had just declared her emotional dependency on him in front of three hundred people and the national press.
Her arms wrapped around his neck. His hands settled on her waist, just above the swell of her belly.
She pressed her face into his shoulder like a lover seeking comfort.
The cameras captured every second.
I don't remember leaving the table. I don't remember walking through the ballroom, past the whispers and the stares and the phones already uploading footage to social media.
I only remember the cold night air hitting my face as I burst through the service entrance, gulping oxygen like I'd been suffocating.