At the VIP clinic, I was helping my nine-month pregnant daughter change for her final ultrasound. The moment her shirt slipped off, I felt my breath catch in my throat.

inside Saint Aurelia was designed to remind patients they were temporary occupants inside Julian Thorne’s carefully controlled domain.

Chloe shifted on the examination table, wincing as the paper beneath her crinkled. One hand rested protectively on her belly, while the other gripped mine tightly.

The technician, a young woman in pale green scrubs, avoided continue reading …