CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TRISTEN
The call from David Holloway came at six in the morning, three weeks before the baby was due.
I was already awake, sitting in the darkness of the guest room with a cold cup of coffee balanced on my knee, staring at nothing. Sleep had become a distant memory, something other people did while I counted the hours until I could reasonably start working again.
"We have a problem," David said without preamble.
I set down the coffee and rubbed my eyes. "What kind of problem?"
"The kind that involves your surrogate, a production company called Radiant Media, and a contract she apparently signed six weeks ago."
My blood went cold. "What contract?"
"I'm sending you the documents now. You're going to want to sit down for this."
I was already sitting, but I understood what he meant the moment I opened the email attachment.
The contract was forty-seven pages long, dense with legal jargon and entertainment industry terminology I only half understood. But the summary David had included at the top made the situation brutally clear.
Oakleigh had signed a development deal for a reality television series.
Working title: Surrogate to the Billionaires: My Life with the Wickhams. The premise centered on her continued relationship with our family after the birth, positioning her as a permanent fixture in our orbit.
The production company had already sold the concept to a streaming network and begun pre-production.
She'd been negotiating this deal for months. Since before the gala. Since before I'd set boundaries and hired advocates and convinced myself I had the situation under control.
The whole time I'd been managing her escalating behavior, she'd been planning something far worse.
"There's more," David said grimly. "Keep scrolling."
I scrolled.
The second attachment was a preliminary pitch deck for sponsorship opportunities.
Oakleigh Scott, the face of modern surrogacy.
Partnership proposals with maternity brands, fertility clinics, baby product companies.
Her face plastered across mock-up advertisements, always with the Wickham name prominently featured.
And the third attachment made my stomach turn violently.
It was a draft press release, apparently prepared by Oakleigh's newly hired publicist. The headline read: Wickham Surrogate Speaks Out: "Aubree Abandoned Us Both."
The release painted Aubree as a jealous, unstable woman who had fled during the pregnancy, leaving Oakleigh alone and unsupported.
It implied that I had been forced to step in as Oakleigh's primary caregiver because my wife had abandoned her responsibilities.
It suggested that Aubree's mental health issues made her unfit for motherhood and that Oakleigh had serious concerns about the welfare of the child she was carrying.
It was a hit piece. A carefully crafted narrative designed to destroy my wife's reputation and position Oakleigh as the sympathetic victim.
"When was this supposed to go out?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"According to our sources, she was planning to release it the day after the birth. Maximum media impact while you're both distracted with the new baby."
I stood up so fast the coffee mug crashed to the floor, shattering against the hardwood. I didn't notice. I couldn't feel anything except the rage building in my chest, hot and toxic and threatening to consume me entirely.
She was going to destroy Aubree.
After everything I'd done to protect my wife. After all the boundaries I'd set, the advocates I'd hired, the distance I'd maintained. Oakleigh had been planning this ambush from the beginning, using the pregnancy as leverage to insert herself permanently into our lives.
And she'd almost gotten away with it.
"What are my options?" I asked.
"Legally, we have several avenues. The surrogacy contract includes strict confidentiality clauses and prohibitions against unauthorized media appearances.
She's already in violation of multiple provisions.
We can pursue injunctive relief, damages, potentially even criminal charges depending on how far she's taken this. "
"Do it. All of it."
"There's a complication." David's voice was careful. "If we go aggressive, she'll fight back. That press release will leak. The narrative she's constructed will get out there, and even if we eventually disprove it, the damage to Aubree's reputation could be significant."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"We could settle quietly. Pay her off, sign additional NDAs, make this go away without public exposure."
The suggestion made bile rise in my throat. Pay her off. Reward her scheming with a fat check and let her walk away clean, free to do this to another family whenever she felt like it.
"No." The word came out harder than I intended. "I'm done protecting people who don't deserve protection. I'm done keeping secrets because it's easier than telling the truth."
"Tristen, think about this carefully. A public fight could get ugly."
"It's already ugly. Oakleigh made sure of that months ago.
" I paced across the room, my bare feet crunching on broken ceramic.
"I want you to prepare a counter-release.
Everything. The contract violations, the media deals, the press release attacking Aubree.
I want the world to see exactly who she really is. "
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." I stopped pacing and stared out the window at the gray December sky. "And David? I want you to add something else to the release. A statement from me, taking full responsibility for the situation that allowed this to happen."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"I kept secrets from my wife. I made decisions without consulting her.
I prioritized Oakleigh's comfort over Aubree's emotional well-being and created an environment where someone like Oakleigh could manipulate all of us.
" My voice cracked slightly. "If I'd been honest from the beginning, if I'd trusted my wife instead of trying to protect her from hard truths, none of this would have happened.
I want to say that publicly. On the record. "
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "That's going to invite a lot of criticism, Tristen. The press will crucify you."
"Let them. I'd rather be crucified for the truth than protected by lies."
The confrontation with Oakleigh happened two days later, in the conference room at Wickham headquarters with David, two additional attorneys, and a court reporter present to document everything.
She arrived looking radiant, dressed in an elegant maternity gown that showed off her swollen belly to maximum effect. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and she greeted me with a warm smile that made my skin crawl.
"Tristen! I was so surprised to hear you wanted to meet in person. I thought we were doing everything through the advocates now."
"Sit down, Oakleigh."
Something flickered in her eyes at my tone. She glanced at the attorneys, at the court reporter, and her smile faltered slightly before she recovered.
"What's going on? Is everything okay with the baby?"
"The baby is fine. This isn't about the baby."
I slid the folder across the table toward her. She looked at it like it might bite her.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
She did. I watched her face as she processed what she was seeing. The production contract. The sponsorship deck. The press release attacking Aubree. Every piece of evidence we'd gathered over the past forty-eight hours, laid out in damning detail.
The mask slipped completely this time.
Gone was the warm, charming woman who had cried so convincingly in doctor's offices and talked so sweetly about wanting to help us become parents. In her place was someone cold and calculating, her blue eyes hard as she looked up at me.
"Where did you get these?"
"Does it matter?"
"They were confidential. Someone violated my privacy."
"You violated our surrogacy agreement. Multiple times. The confidentiality clauses, the media appearance restrictions, the prohibition against using the Wickham name for commercial purposes." I leaned forward across the table. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out?"
Oakleigh's jaw tightened. "I haven't done anything wrong. I have every right to tell my story."
"Your story? You mean the one where you paint my wife as an unstable abandoner who left you alone and unsupported?
" I pulled out the draft press release and read from it directly.
"'Aubree's jealousy and mental health issues made her incapable of supporting me through this pregnancy.
I fear for the child I'm carrying if she's allowed to be its primary caregiver.
'" I looked up at her. "Those are your words, Oakleigh.
Your narrative. Your attempt to destroy a woman who did nothing except trust you with the most precious thing in her life. "
"Aubree abandoned me."
"Aubree left because I failed her. Because I kept secrets and made decisions without her and prioritized your comfort over her emotional well-being.
" My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm.
"She left because of my mistakes, not yours.
And you were going to use that pain, that grief, to launch yourself into the spotlight as some kind of victim? "
"I am a victim!" Oakleigh's composure cracked, her voice going shrill.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be a surrogate?
To give up your body for nine months, to go through all of this, and then be expected to just disappear like you never existed?
I deserve recognition. I deserve to be seen. "
"You deserve to be compensated for your medical service, which you have been, generously. You don't deserve to leverage a contract into a permanent claim on our family."
"That's easy for you to say. You're the billionaire. You get to go back to your perfect life after this is over. What do I get?"