Raj and I fell in love during our university days in Pune. We faced so many obstacles—family disapproval, financial struggles—but somehow, we held on to each other and finally got married.

But less than two years after our wedding, our world collapsed.

Raj was diagnosed with stage IV lymphoma.

The doctors at Mumbai Central Hospital were blunt:

“He needs an urgent bone marrow transplant. It will cost at least 15 lakh rupees. And time is running out.”

Both our families were poor. I knocked on every door I could think of, begged, borrowed… but it wasn’t enough.

I even considered selling our small apartment in Dadar. But the doctor warned me:

“If you don’t find the money within a month, there won’t be anything left to save.”

One night, sitting outside the ICU, my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number:

“I need a discreet surrogate. 20 lakh rupees. No obligations after delivery. Contract guaranteed.”

My hands trembled. My mind screamed no, but my heart whispered one thing:

“If this is what it takes to save Raj… I’ll do it.”

I didn’t tell a soul.

The next morning, I signed the contract and underwent embryo transfer at a private clinic in Navi Mumbai.

All I could think of was Raj’s face, pale but smiling, when the doctors said the transplant had been a success. He had cheated death… but barely. His body remained too weak to leave the hospital.

He never knew how I got the money. I told him an old college friend helped us.

Then came the ninth month.

I went to a maternity ward in a small private hospital in Thane. I didn’t tell Raj or our families. I delivered the baby alone, in silence.

But the moment the child was born, something strange happened.

The room fell silent.

Doctors exchanged glances. One nurse rushed to the corridor.

Then a security guard entered the delivery room.

I asked, breathless, “Is the baby okay?”

The doctor didn’t meet my eyes.

Instead, another man entered—wearing a black suit, flanked by two hospital officials. He looked at the baby… and turned pale.

“This… this can’t be right,” he whispered.

I was confused. Scared. Exhausted.

That’s when I heard the words that shattered everything:

“We didn’t implant a donor embryo. The child… shares your DNA.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

The suited man’s voice was cold and clipped:

“The child isn’t mine. There’s been a mistake. A massive one. This baby… is biologically yours.”

I gasped.

And then I realized the horrifying truth.

In my desperation, I hadn’t just sacrificed my body—I had unknowingly sacrificed my child.

The contract I signed promised money, silence, no rights after birth. But it hadn’t been a donor embryo. It had been mine all along.

And now… someone else had come to claim him.

But I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Not without a fight.