TheOffer
1986 Words
QUEENS CARE HOSPITAL
Antiseptic scent clung to the air as Bryson exited the examination room at Queens Care Hospital. The sterile white walls irritated his eyes as he adjusted the cufflinks attached to his suit. His expression, as usual, remained cold, blank, and unreadable. His checkup with Dr Benson went well. He had just been confirmed perfectly healthy. However, no woman has signed up to carry his legacy through the process Dr Benson drafted. The words of the women he had interviewed earlier rang in his ears. Will he ever be able to find someone to carry his child?
Bryson scowled. “Screw those bitches.” he muttered.
As he walked down the long corridor, almost turning towards the reception area, he caught sight of a woman standing alone by the wall, far away from people. Her head was slightly bowed as she spoke into the phone. She was dressed in black jeans and a hoodie. She looked entirely different from the long list of sophisticated women he had interviewed these past few weeks. She looked like she didn't want to be in this building; something about her just pulled at him.
As Bryson walked closer, he heard her voice, soft but sharp with frustration. “I don't think I want to do this, Janice. I have done the test; it appears I am fit to donate. But donating my eggs for money feels weird.”
Bryson would have walked past her, but his footsteps slowed. Curiosity and recognition tucked in his mind’s eyes after getting a closer look at her face.
“I feel like I am about to sell a part of myself, which doesn't sit right with me. I'd rather hustle hard, pick up more shifts at the bar, look into getting a job at another bakery, bake more orders, and sell on the street. Anything good enough to make me crawl out of these debts.”
A woman in scrubs and noises from a nurse calling out to someone in the reception area distracted Bryson for a minute, hindering him from hearing more of her words. Bryson stopped on the track to look at the lady again; she was preparing to leave.
“The tip at the bar is good, but I can't stand the men trying to grope me. Bartending is hard for a woman like me. And I hate that job!”
There was a pause, and then she disconnected the call and dropped the phone in her bag. Like someone under a spell, Bryson went to her.
“Hey,” Bryson said in a sharp voice.
Chantelle was startled when she saw the figure in front of her. Their eyes met, and it was warm. Just like that, something clicked. Bryson took in her almost perfect features, the shape of her brow, the lips, and her confused expression.
“Do I know you?” Chantelle asked with a guarded expression.
“Are you one of the candidates?” he asked, assuming someone had applied at the minute.
“What candidate?”
“For surrogacy through Dr Benson. He is my doctor.” Bryson clarified.
“Surrogacy? What? NO!” her response was sharp.
“I heard your call. You are here because of a debt. I can tell you are desperate and need money.”
Chantelle felt embarrassed. “No. I am not here for—”
“You are coming with me.”
And before she could explain or protest, Bryson grabbed her wrist gently, leading her down the corridor. Chantelle tried to shake him off as her heart raced in her chest.
“You got the wrong person. Sir—I am—not here for—surrogacy!”
Bryson pushed the door. Dr Benson, a man in his sixties with sharp gray hair, stood behind his desk.
“Mr Moore?”
“She is my surrogate.”
Dr Benson arched his eyebrows. “What?”
Chantelle stood beside Bryson with disbelief and embarrassment written on her expression.
“I have found a surrogate.” he pointed at her. “She’s perfect to carry my child. Healthy and clean. And she could carry a child full-time without complications. And from what I heard, she's hesitant and finds it weird to do such for money. She's what I need.”
Chantelle’s eyes widened even more. “What? Wait...you have things mixed up. First of all, I am not a surrogacy candidate. I don't even find it right to donate my eggs for money. My friend shares the info, but I haven’t agreed to—”
“Oh, I heard about the egg donation program.” Dr Benson said.
“He is misinterpreting—”
“That's enough. You need money to get out of debt; I can give you enough to sort everything if you agree to be my surrogate.”
“Do you walk around offering women money to carry your child like it's a job listing?” Chantelle glared, her arms crossed over her chest.
Bryson looked at her, unflinching. “Yes. I need a surrogate, and I am offering the money.”
“I don't want to be a surrogate,” Chantelle answered firmly.
Doctor Benson stood still, watching the banter, unsure what to say.
“I do not want to be your surrogate.” She eyed him and started toward the door.
“TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS.” Bryson blurted.
Chantelle stopped on track and turned to look at him. “What did you just say?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars for a successful pregnancy.”
Chantelle’s brain went into calculative mode, almost exploding. She had about $70,000 of her father’s debt to repay, the baking tools she had bought on installment about a month ago, her rent was due, and credit card loans. Everything sums up to about $100,000. Two hundred thousand? With such money, she could breathe in an air of change after loan and debt repayments. She would stop working multiple shifts, be away from lustful and irritating men, and could even open her bakery. But all this would only happen if she bears a child. The child won't be hers to keep; she’d carry it.
The men noticed the internal battle in her expression.
“I don't want anything else, just the child. I don't want a relationship. We won't be seeing aside check-up days. This is going to be strictly business. You will have space, privacy, and extra allowance for feeding and clothes.”
Chantelle looked from the guy speaking to the doctor, who signified with a nod. It sounded too good to be true.
“If you need time to think, that's fine,” Bryson added.
Chantelle nodded in agreement. “I need time to think,” she mumbled.
“You have twenty-four hours.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Chantelle said, looking straight at him.
There was a pause. Bryson exchanged glances with Dr Benson, who shrugged.
“Alright, forty-eight hours. Find me at House of Moore by 9 a.m. " He gave her a card. “I will be waiting, Miss…”
“Chantelle Diaz.” She took the card.
Chantelle backed away, leaving the hospital at a close run.
**************
CHANTELLE’S STUDIO APARTMENT
Janice was already waiting at Chantelle’s place. She had received the SOS message Chantelle had sent and had promised to show up. Janice had already made herself comfortable on the couch with cupcakes and juice. She paused midbite when Chantelle stepped in.
“You never disappoint,” Chantelle said, pointing at the cupcakes.
“I’ll never miss an opportunity to have these little blessings. Lucky for me, it's my day off! Now spill the tea.” She tapped on the space next to her, and Chantelle settled in.
“I got an offer,” Chantelle said slowly.
“What offer? I thought you didn't want to donate your egg. Or—” Janice paused. “Is it a job offer?” she blinked rapidly.
Chantelle shook her head negatively. “It's a surrogacy offer.”
“What?” Janice almost choked on her juice. “Surrogacy?”
“Yes. A private one.”
“Hold on. You mean, someone offered to pay you to carry a baby?”
“Yeah. A very wealthy man. The arrangement will be confidential—strictly business. No strings. And it comes with a huge pay.”
Janice's eyebrows creased. “What’s the huge pay?”
“Two hundreds thousand dollars.”
Janice gasps. “What? That much for a child?” Chantelle nodded. “Wait, who is this person that made such an offer?”
Chantelle reached for her bag and took out the business card. “Bryson Moore.”
“Are you serious? The Bryson Moore of House of Moore?” Janice’s eyes grew wider. “Babes! How did you end up meeting Bryson Moore?!”
“He came to me.” Chantelle recapped how everything had played out.
“Girl! Surrogacy is no child’s play. But the way it looks to me, you're considering it.”
“I don't know. I was having doubts about donating my eggs. And now, I hate to say it loud, but I am considering it. But mostly for the money. I can pay off the debts and own my bakery. I feel cornered now but exhausted from dealing with loan sharks.”
“Listen, I want you to think about it deeply. This isn't some fun time at the spa. This is your body. If you accept it, nine months will be filled with mood swings, cravings, the whole baby thing—-it is not even your baby in the end.”
“I know. It scares me. I feel terrified. The money will change everything.”
Janice reached out to rub her upper arms. “Whatever decision you make, I'll support you. Just promise me that you won't lose Chantelle in the process.”
Chantelle nodded; her heart was pounding hard. “I promise.”
******************
Bryson tapped on his phone, connected it to the car’s Bluetooth, and dialed his sister. The line was picked up immediately as if she had been expecting the call.
“I am certain you can't live without me. How many hours ago were we together?”
“Don't start, Khloe.”
“Well, I've already started. Am I getting your inheritance?”
“Unfortunately, no. I found someone.”
“Who? A Ghost?” Khloe giggled.
“A surrogate,” Bryson said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
An ear-piercing scream followed a beat of silence. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“OMG! So Mr Picky finally found someone suitable enough to carry his legacy!”
“Khloe—”
“Seriously? Who is she? Where and how did you meet?”
“One question at a time. Just know she's different. She looks smart, stubborn, and…” His voice trailed off as the image of Chantelle played in his mind. Beautiful. That's the word.
“How did she agree? Was she in her right mind? Is she broke?” Khloe gasped.
“Yes, but she's clean and sharp. She hasn't accepted, though. I gave her two days to decide. Believe me when I say I have a good feeling about her.”
“Come on, Mr. Picky Good Feeling. I hope she says yes. And I also pray the universe uses her to open more than just a baby door for you.”
“Don’t even think about it. It's just business.”
“Well, we shall see. When she says yes, I want to meet the woman that won my brother’s certainty.” Khloe laughed.
“Bye, Pest.”
“Don't forget my Birkin, Mister Good Feeling!”
The call ended. Bryson released a wave of air he didn't know he had been holding in. He hopes that the universe has his back on this one.
- Writer
