The Billionaire’s Surrogate

You coming with me

The next morning arrived faster than I expected. I had barely slept, my thoughts swinging wildly between excitement and dread. I spent an unreasonable amount of time standing in front of my closet, debating what to wear for this "medical evaluation." Did it even matter? Probably not, but I still wanted to look somewhat put-together. Eventually, I settled on a simple pair of black jeans and a white blouse, trying to keep it neutral.

At exactly 9 a.m., a sleek black car pulled up in front of my building. The driver, a man in his early forties with a professional demeanor, stepped out and opened the door for me.

"Miss Smith," he greeted with a polite nod. "Mr. Ethan instructed me to take you to the facility."

Facility. The word made it sound like I was heading to a top-secret lab, and knowing Ethan Williams that wasn’t entirely out of the question. I nodded and climbed in, clutching my bag tightly.

The ride was smooth and quiet, the kind of silence that made me hyperaware of every breath I took. The city streets blurred past the tinted windows, and soon we were heading into a more secluded area.

When we arrived, I was greeted by an immaculately modern building with gleaming glass windows and a minimalist logo that read Williams Biogenetics. Of course, it wasn’t just a clinic—it was his clinic.

"Miss Smith, this way," the driver said, leading me inside.

The interior was just as pristine and intimidating as the exterior. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and wealth. A woman in a white coat, who introduced herself as Dr. Lynd greeted me with a warm but professional smile.

"Miss Smith it’s a pleasure to meet you. Mr. William has briefed me on the situation. Today, we’ll conduct a few routine tests to ensure you’re in optimal health before we proceed. Nothing to worry about."

Her words were meant to be reassuring, but they only made my anxiety worse. I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral as she led me into an exam room.

The tests were thorough—bloodwork, ultrasounds, and psychological evaluations. At one point, I was asked to fill out a seemingly endless questionnaire about my medical history, lifestyle, and mental health. By the end of it, I felt drained, both physically and emotionally.

As I was getting dressed to leave, Dr. Lynd came back with a clipboard.

"Everything looks good so far, Miss Smith," she said, her tone neutral. "We’ll have the final results in a few days, but there’s no indication of any issues. Mr. William will be pleased to hear that."

I nodded, unsure of what to say.

As I walked back to the car, I felt the weight of the decision settling on me again. This was real. They were treating me like some kind of investment, a vessel to be fine-tuned and monitored. It was unsettling, and yet I couldn’t deny the allure of the money waiting for me at the end of this process.

The drive back to my apartment was as quiet as the ride there, but my mind was anything but. I replayed the morning’s events over and over, dissecting every word, every glance, every sterile surface of that intimidating building.

What had I signed myself up for?

When we finally pulled up in front of my building, the driver handed me a sleek envelope. "Mr. Williams asked me to give you this," he said with the same polite detachment he’d had all morning.

I took it, muttered a thank you, and practically fled up the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, I leaned against the door, staring at the envelope in my hands. My name was printed on the front in bold, elegant lettering, as though it were some sort of invitation. I opened it carefully, the weight of the paper somehow adding to my unease.

Inside was a letter, signed by Ethan himself

"You coming with me at the gala tomorrow evening",

I read the words in disbelief. Did he just write that?!

The audacity.

My hands shook as I reread the letter, as though the words might change if I stared hard enough.

"You coming with me to the gala tomorrow evening."

Not even a question mark. Just a cold, imperious statement, as if my attendance was a given. I hadn’t signed up for this. I agreed to be a surrogate, not his personal escort to high-society events.

I clenched the letter in my hand, staring at the sharp, confident strokes of his signature. Ethan Williams. A man who clearly didn’t believe in asking for anything—he simply expected compliance.

I threw the letter onto my kitchen counter and paced the small space.

The audacity! It was one thing to sign up for surrogacy, to endure invasive tests and medical scrutiny, but this? This felt like an overreach, a blatant disregard for boundaries.

The logical part of me wanted me to go but the fiery, stubborn part of me wanted to crumple the letter, toss it into the trash, and make a point.

I wanted to refuse. But could I?

The terms of the contract loomed large in my mind. I’d skimmed it before signing—too distracted by the dollar signs to scrutinize every line. Was there some clause buried in the legal jargon about attending events? If I said no, would that jeopardize the agreement? Would I even get paid?

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. Why did I let myself get involved in something so complicated?