The Secret Invitation

by Robbi Renee

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

An unconventional cure. A dangerous obsession. A secret that refuses to stay contained. A provocative new thriller from Robbi Renee.

After years of infertility and quiet grief, Dionna and Julian Davies believed they had survived the hardest chapter of their marriage. Adoption gave them purpose, and raising their son brought meaning. But ten years later, the distance between them is unmistakable. The intimacy has faded, secrets have taken root, and they both quietly question their next move.

Until they meet her…

A chance encounter with a beautiful, intoxicating stranger awakens something Dionna and Julian thought was long buried. Longing. Pleasure. Curiosity. What begins as a fleeting spark quickly becomes an obsession neither of them can ignore.

Temptation…

Dionna, a respected sex therapist, proposes something radical. She believes intimacy can be restored through honesty, boundaries, and controlled risk. She invites the woman into their marriage as a surrogate, convinced this calculated step will heal what is broken.

Instead, it unravels everything…

Release date: November 24, 2026

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter 1

Julian and Dionna

April 2015

Julian

The room filled with people before I could process what was happening. One moment, Dionna was gripping my hand, her face slick with sweat, whispering through clenched teeth that something didn’t feel right. The next, alarms were sounding, nurses were rushing in, and the bed was moving. Wheels rattled against tile while voices fired off words I barely understood.

“She’s bleeding,” a nurse called out.

“Placental abruption,” another masked person said.

Placental abruption? I had read about that. This couldn’t be good. Everything was moving in slow motion so this couldn’t be good.

“Prep the OR—now,” our doctor said with enough urgency that everybody in the room began to move faster.

I stayed close, my hand locked around Dionna’s, even as her grip weakened.

“Julian…” Her voice faded.

“Stay with me, Dove,” I told her, bending low so she could hear me. “I’m right here, baby.”

Her eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open. Her beautiful brown skin looked pale. Afraid.

“I just want her to be okay,” she whispered. “I just want Haven.”

Those were the last words my wife said before the anesthesiologist stepped in and everything went quiet. The doors swung shut behind her, and I was left standing there, frozen, staring at nothing.

We had awakened that morning to what felt like a normal day. Dionna was due any day now, so we had been on high alert. We cooked breakfast, and not ten minutes after we sat down to eat, a gush of fluid leaked down her legs. Those big beautiful brown eyes stared at me when she giggled, saying, “Babe, we got action.”

Now twelve hours later, we were in surgery because my wife and baby were in distress. The operating room was too bright. Too sterile. Too calm for the panic clawing up my throat. I sat behind a blue curtain while the doctor worked, her voice clipped and urgent. I could only see Dionna’s heavy-lidded eyes and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

A thin cry cut through the air. Fragile and brief. My breath caught as my eyes darted from my wife to the other side of the curtain, desperately waiting for another small screech. A nurse stepped into view holding something impossibly small.

“It’s a girl,” she said softly.

We already knew it was a girl. We had already planned to name her Haven Dion Davies. Haven was my choice and Dion was in honor of Dionna’s brother who died at three years old from a host of health complications.

Our baby girl looked fine on the surface. Uneven skin tone slick with fluids, arms and legs tucked tight, and puffy eyes blinking once. But the regretful expressions on the doctor and nurses’ faces told a different story.

“We’re taking her to the NICU.”

I nodded, tears blurring my vision. My eyes followed the path of the nurse until she pushed through the double doors.

“She’s here,” I whispered to Dionna. “Haven is here, baby,” I said again, but she didn’t respond.

I lowered my head to look at my wife. My unconscious wife.

“Dionna,” I screamed to the room, to God, to my unconscious wife.

For two days, I paced the hospital hallways, washing my hands until the skin cracked, pressing my fingers against the glass of Haven’s incubator like will alone might keep her breathing.

I talked to her. Took dozens of pictures. Told her about the room we painted. The rainbow mural in her nursery. The lamb her mommy picked out before we even knew the gender.

When the doctor entered the room, I knew before she spoke.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Davies,” she said gently. “She went too long without oxygen. There’s nothing more we can do.”

I didn’t cry. I just stood there and watched as the monitors slowed…then stopped. I was alone when Haven died. I wanted it this way since her mommy was still lying unconscious down the hall.

Haven Dion Davies was born on April 13, 2015, at 10:07 p.m., weighing six pounds, two ounces. She died April 15 at 8:19 a.m.



Dionna

April 15 9:52 a.m.

I woke to silence. And it was deafening. Scary. My head spun like I’d taken too many turns on a roller coaster. Where was Julian? Where was—

My thoughts crawled backward as far as they could go. My water broke. I remembered laughing and giddily wobbling to the car. Julian was driving too fast, one hand on my belly like it could protect us both. “Prep the OR,” I recalled someone shouting.

“Haven,” I rasped, the name scraping my throat like glass.

Opening my eyes felt like work. Heavy and slow, they fluttered, then finally lifted, sweeping over the dim hospital room. No bassinet. No cries. No weight placed against my chest like I’d imagined a thousand times.

My body ached in ways I couldn’t comprehend. Deep, hollow pain rooted too far to reach. My throat burned like I’d been screaming without making a sound. But I spoke anyway.

“Where’s Haven?”

Julian jolted upright in the chair beside me, startled. His eyes locked onto mine with a look I’d never seen before. Relief, but creased and heavy with something I couldn’t name. Something that had been there too long.

“Dove…you’re awake,” he said quickly, like he was afraid I’d vanish again.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Then my cheek. Then my lips. Three kisses. Our wordless way of saying I love you.

His hand lingered against my face for the briefest moment before I instinctively rubbed my palm over my stomach—flat now. The monitor beside me started beeping louder, faster. I tried to breathe, to stay calm, but everything in me was shouting. Something was wrong.

Julian took my hand, pressed it to his lips. His skin was warm and damp. I knew this man better than I knew myself, and I knew that look in his eyes. My chest tightened.

I blinked, trying to focus, but the room felt strange. Too still, too empty. Just bare walls, a window, a chair, and an IV pole. But no baby.

I looked back at him. “Where’s my baby, Julian?”

The question felt reasonable, right? Logical since I was pregnant. I gave birth. There should be a baby.

He squeezed my hand harder.

“She’s…” he began, voice cracking. He swallowed and tried again. “She’s…”

My brows pulled together. “The NICU?” I asked quickly. “Is she in the NICU?”

He nodded. But it wasn’t a reassuring nod. It was hesitant, and immediately my stomach churned, but I didn’t give it air.

“How long was I out?” I asked instead.

“Four days.”

“Four?” I echoed, stunned. “Well, have them bring her to me.”

He opened his mouth then closed it. I stared at my husband, watching his every move. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes shone, even in the low light.

“Julian…” My voice lowered. “Why are you crying?”

I hadn’t noticed the tears until then. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against my hand like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Dove,” he whispered. “Baby…”

I shook my head once. “No. Don’t.”

He lifted his face to mine. His eyes were red, rimmed with something I didn’t recognize. Fragility. Finality.

“She didn’t make it,” he said.

The words landed between us like a stone in still water. But the ripples didn’t come. I stared at him, waiting for something in me to break. To scream. To fight. But nothing came. Just silence. An eerie hush that neither of us could explain.

“What do you mean…” I said, barely hearing myself. “She didn’t make it?”

“I’m so sorry, Dove. So sorry.”

“No,” I said, more firmly this time. “No. I heard her cry, Julian.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I heard it too.”

“She was alive,” I pressed. “They said she was alive.”

“She was, baby,” he said gently. “For two days.”

And just like that, the room tilted. Gravity shifted. My body felt weightless and crushed at the same time. My gaze drifted past him. My eyes blurred over the wall. On nothing and everything.

“Oh,” I said blankly.

Just oh.

I turned toward the window. Away from him. Away from the reality trying to push its way inside me. I waited for the scream. For the sobs. But they didn’t come. Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time didn’t feel real anymore.

“Did I do something wrong?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Julian’s voice broke again as he vigorously shook his head. “No. This wasn’t you. None of this was you, Dionna. It just happened.”

I said nothing. My hand slipped from his. I brought both to my chest, curling my fingers into the hospital gown, like if I didn’t hold myself together from the outside, I’d come apart from within.

“I didn’t get to hold her,” I said quietly.

“I know, baby.”

“I didn’t even see her face.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was punishing and cruel.

“I feel empty,” I whispered.

Julian nodded. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not really. He was grieving too, I knew that. But this hollow inside me was different—bone-deep and soul-altering. Like something vital had been carved out, leaving a space that could never be filled. She was supposed to be here.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I just lay there, eyes wide open, staring into a place far away. Somewhere I could still feel her moving. Somewhere this hadn’t happened. It was like the truth had arrived…but my soul hadn’t caught up. And all Julian could do was sit beside me, holding what was left of our world together while everything else existed somewhere else—in another universe, where our daughter was still alive and this moment never had to happen.

Chapter 2

Dionna

I used to love that smell. The powdery, fresh scent of baby lotion. The clean comfort of innocence used to soothe me. Now the creamy sweetness made me sick to my stomach. Clutching the bottom of my belly, I swallowed hard. The nursery still reeked of it. It had seeped into the walls, into the carpet. I inhaled deeply. Somehow it had made its way into my skin.

I sat in the corner of the room, knees pulled to my chest and eyes fixed on the kaleidoscope of butterflies and rainbows that danced across the wall in soft pastels. I must’ve traced the outline of the same butterfly over and over again, moving slowly, yet deliberately, as if repetition might change my circumstance. I blinked, still unable to tear my gaze away. Each pass lingered a fraction longer on the soft incline of the wing.

The delicate edges and effortless pigment were what first attracted me to the idea of a butterfly theme for the nursery. You can’t help but marvel at its beauty and how perfectly it exists.

The day the doctor announced, “It’s a girl,” we knew the butterflies would be a whimsical symbol of color after the storm. Now, the bright mural felt like deception, a jarring reminder of what could’ve been.

It had been three weeks, and I didn’t cry anymore. I had no more tears to give. Grief had wrung me tight and laid me out to dry. The tears had come and gone so many times, they no longer knew the way back. My wails were different now. Silent. Excruciating. A slow, internal leak behind my cloudy eyes.

Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. More than thirty thousand minutes since we said farewell to our Haven. I don’t remember much from that day beyond the gold angels lining the exterior of the small white casket.

Julian took care of everything. He was my strength, and I hated it. Hated that I left all of the responsibility to him when he was hurting too. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

It was as if I were paralyzed. Infected with sorrow buried so deeply into my bones. No vigor. No urgency. No motion. Like someone pressed the pause button and forgot about me. Every day I stayed here. In the room built for Haven.

I was seeking an iota of peace from any corner of this space. Slouched against the wall. Lying curled on the floor. Sometimes balled in the rocking chair. Anywhere to quiet the subdued lunacy that inched its way up my skin.

I heard the mechanical groan of the garage door opening. Julian was home. 4:30 p.m. He was my clock. I’d been lying here for seven-and-a-half hours.

I closed my eyes, envisioning his routine. Taking his shoes off as he hung his backpack on the hook in the mudroom. Biting into his bottom lip while surveying today’s mail before tossing the pile on the counter. I imagined him pausing in the hallway leading to the nursery before taking ten steps to fill the threshold.

“Hey, Dove,” I whispered to myself, mimicking what he was going to say any second now.

“Hey, Dove.”

A faint smile cracked my lips at the sound of his deep, familiar baritone. Dove. I loved that name. It slipped from his lips so effortlessly after our first kiss.

“Hey,” I croaked, still balled tight as a fist on the lounger.

He crossed the room. Always careful in his pursuit. Bending, he kissed my temple, then my cheek, before sitting on the edge. The gentle hand that rubbed my socked feet gave me momentary relief. Julian was beautiful. He always had been since the first day my eyes landed on his butterscotch skin.

The next step in this daily dance of ours was a probing question. I believed it was his way of getting me to speak more than a few words since my only vocabulary lately had been hey, yes, no, and thank you.

“What did you eat today?”

“Mama brought soup,” I whimpered.

“Mmm…Any left for me?” he said, and I could hear the smile in his tone.

My mother’s homemade gnocchi soup was made of fairytales and dreams. Our family had actual fights over the last bowl.

“You know she made enough for her favorite,” I said, teasing.

“So are you joining me for seconds?” he asked. “Please.”

I heard the begging in his voice, and it broke my heart. Julian had been the man of steel throughout this ordeal. Built to bear weight without complaint. But I knew, beneath his hardened surface, that he was glass under pressure, living with an invisible hairline fracture that was one wrong moment away from shattering.

He gave me space. Time. Everything that he thought I needed to prevent my already fragmented spirit from completely crumbling. But even in my despair, even when my muscles ached from carrying the loss, I had to give my husband something. Acquiesce to his desire for a simple dinner with his wife—moments of me when breathing and bearing were actually tolerable.

I nodded, lifting my weakened frame to face him. Julian kissed me, and honestly, that was the one act that reminded me I was still alive. He stood from the lounger, bringing me up with him. I rested in the comfort of his arms. His big body was always my balm, my healing. Covering me in my times of sorrow. But this time I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t rid myself of this sickness.

Wrapped in his arms, we trekked down the hallway to the great room and into the kitchen. He seated me at the oversized marble island where we often enjoyed a meal and a savory glass of red wine. We hadn’t done that in months.

Our beautiful, custom-built home almost didn’t feel lived in. We moved in when I was six months pregnant. Then came the storm. So there were still unpacked boxes, paintings against the walls yet to be hung. We were so focused on finishing our bedroom and the nursery that other parts of the house remained unfinished.

“One breadstick or two?” Julian’s voice broke my mental perusal of our space.

“None. I had two already,” I chuckled. “I’ll have wine though.”

Julian spun around to look at me, surprised at my request. The slight turn of his thick lips indicated a glimpse of normalcy for us tonight. He nodded.

I watched him walk to the wine closet to retrieve a bottle. His slow stride was commanding, damn near intoxicating in the tailored navy-blue slacks.

“You in the mood for a show tonight?” He bit his bottom lip, allowing a sexy smile to break through. “Dinner and a movie with your husband?”

Julian was a give-him-an-inch-he’ll-take-a-mile kinda man. If I engaged in conversation beyond our bedroom or the nursery, he would push for more.

I snickered, resting my face in the palm of my hand. “I’d like that.”

Transitioning to the couch, we ate, enjoyed the wine, and caught up on episodes of Orange Is the New Black. I cuddled into his side, not really focused on the shenanigans of Taystee and the women in Litchfield Penitentiary.

“When will the pain go away?” I breathed into the night, releasing my daily inner thoughts. “Every morning, I wake up and tell myself today is going to be the day when I feel normal—when I don’t feel like I am moving in slow motion. The day that I am going to go for a walk or check email. Start scheduling clients again. Something that feels normal.”

Watery eyes shifted to look at Julian whose concerned eyes were already piercing me.

“J, every day hurts. I wake up already tired. Everybody keeps saying, ‘Just get some rest,’ but rest feels like a distant memory instead of a remedy. I opened the refrigerator today just to get something to drink, and even the simplest decision—lemonade or Sprite—felt like labor.”

We lingered in the silence. We were comfortable there because it had become our norm.

“I don’t know, baby. You can’t rush how you process your grief. A couple weeks ago, this wouldn’t be possible.” He motioned his finger between the two of us cuddled on the couch.

He was referring to the nights I would sleep in the nursery when exhaustion overtook me. Julian would cover me with a blanket and tuck a pillow under my head. Sometimes he’d lean against the edge of the crib, watching me breathe, just to make sure the nightmares didn’t come.

“How are you doing it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

Now Julian was the one to pause, and I would listen.

“This shit moves through people in different ways on different timelines. For you, your grief is loud and immediate. For me…” He pursed his lips, seemingly quelling his emotions.

I rubbed my hand across his chest, gliding it up to his face, giving him permission to feel this. He cleared his throat.

“For me, it grew quiet and heavy, so I needed to keep moving before everything closed in on me.” He kissed my forehead. “You find relief in silence and seclusion. I have to keep moving to survive this.”

I shifted to straddle him, falling into his chest. We cried together. Some moments loud and raw, others hushed and personal. He cradled my head in his big hands, fingers nestled into my hair. We hadn’t broken like this in a while—at least not together.

Our breathing came in ragged stumbles until we found our rhythm. My tears soaked his shirt; his fell silently, transferring from his skin to mine. His thumb moved in quiet circles against my skin, a familiar motion meant to soothe, to anchor me. But I could feel his grief there, too, pulsing beneath the surface, restrained only because he thought I needed him to be strong.

When I lifted my face and met his eyes, something unguarded passed between us. An understanding that strength wasn’t what was required in this moment. Presence was.

“This shit moves through us like this.” I motioned a finger between the two of us. “Together. Sharing the weight so neither of us has to carry it alone.” Brushing the tip of my nose against his warm skin, I continued, “Julian, I’m sorry if you’ve felt like you were in this alone.”

“Dove,” he whispered into my neck.

Foreheads touching, tears mingling, bodies remembering what the world had taken, we held each other, hope and healing seeping into our skin.

Our intimacy wasn’t desire, but love. Devotion. Two lovers broken at the same angle, in the same place, but choosing, again and again, to break together rather than apart.

Chapter 3

Julian

Rain in Houston doesn’t announce itself politely. It gathers quickly then falls in sheets that blur everything familiar. Today was one of those days. The threat of flooding was real, so I packed my things and headed home early. It had only started raining an hour ago, but the water was already swallowing the streets.

The sound of rain was constant, drumming against my rooftop. I carefully navigated my SUV, avoiding dumb drivers who sped like they didn’t have a care in the world. I shook my head as another passed by, spraying puddles of water across my windshield.

“Call Dove,” I spoke aloud.

Calling Dove the Wifey, Siri said.

The phone rang, but there was no answer. This gloomy weather coupled with her already fatigued disposition. I was certain she was asleep.

“Call Mama’s cell,” I commanded.

I needed to check in with my mother since I hadn’t heard from her in a couple days. But also because Maureen Davies would be out in these streets saying, “I was born in Houston. I’m used to a little rain,” and there was nothing little about this rain.

“I’m at home, boy.” She chuckled, answering the phone already knowing what I was calling for.

“Okay, young lady. I was just checking on you. This rain came out of nowhere, and I know how you like to press your luck.”

“Press my luck? This li’l rain ain’t nothing,” she fussed.

I laughed, shaking my head. “What have you been up to today?”

“Nothing much. I was thinking about a fish fry on Friday. You think Dionna will be up to it?” she asked, the concern lacing the tone of her voice.

My parents loved my wife, but she and my mother shared a special relationship. Since the first time I brought Dionna to a family gathering when we were dating, my mother told me every chance she got that she was the one.

But losing Haven had weakened the thread connecting our entire family. Everybody wanted to help—wanted to support my wife as best as they could, but Dee wouldn’t let anybody in. Her mother nor mine. I know this fish fry is another olive branch Mom is extending since Friday night fish fries have always been Dionna’s favorite.

“I don’t know, Ma, but I’ll ask her when I get home.”

I could almost see my mother’s troubled nod through the brief silence. Breaking the uncomfortable hush, I probed about her travel group to get her going about her next vacation. Mom and I talked for the next twenty minutes until I turned onto my street.

I whispered a quiet prayer when I pulled into the garage. I was planning on picking up Dionna’s second favorite, Chinese food, but I wouldn’t chance it in this weather. It had been a week since we’d shared the intimate moment on the couch. And that was the most I’d gotten out of her in weeks. I was going to be as patient as she needed me to be, but damn I wanted a glimpse of my wife back.

It had been six weeks since Haven passed away, and the pain was just as present as the day she died. Dee was still up and down and in and out. She still spent nights in the nursery and had moments where she simply couldn’t move. But I was thankful that she was at least talking to me.

Every night after doing some work and showering, I’d take her a cup of chamomile tea into the room. Sometimes she’d drink it; sometimes she wouldn’t. But most nights, she’d invite me to stay—to lay with her—and I would. I would crawl behind her, warming her with blankets as I stroked her back and cradled her stomach out of habit.

I stepped through the mudroom and into the dark kitchen. Although it was only five o’clock, the storm had cast a dim shadow. The house was unusually quiet as of late. Usually, the faint hum of the TV would buzz in the background, although she wasn’t watching it. Or jazz music that she was convinced would make our baby eclectic would play in the nursery.

But underneath the silence, I heard something that I couldn’t describe. With a pinched brow, I headed down the hallway, braced myself as I normally did, expecting to see my wife curled up somewhere in the room.

I stepped into the nursery doorway as I did every day. My eyes bulged and heart pounded when I saw Dionna on a stepstool, paint roller in hand. A sheet covered the carpeted floor, and there was a half-empty bucket of paint. She was dressed in leggings and an old Houston Rockets t-shirt with her hair pulled into a ponytail.

I blinked slowly because I had to be dreaming. I was seeing it wrong. I stepped closer, quietly, not to startle her. My heart sank at the sight of her tears mixing with speckles of paint streaking down her pretty face.

My Dove had zoned out, unaware of my presence as she worked, cheeks damp, jaw clenched in determination. Broad strokes of muted gray cove. . .