Make Me Scream, Daddy

Chapter 7

She came to my clinic because we don’t cut corners. Because we don’t see women as walking incubators. Because we believe every woman deserves the chance to make her own choices about her body, her future, her family.

That’s why I didn’t crumble when Dr. Walsh stole everything. And it’s why I’m not backing down now.

I will not pimp out wombs to mobsters playing Dynasty Tycoon.

“You want a child?” I grab the contract, my resolve hardening with each syllable. “Try Tinder. But if you think I’ll sell my soul for your checkbook…” I rip the contract in half. The sound is supremely satisfying in the quiet room. “Think again, Safonov.”

Shadows gather in the hollows of his cheekbones. “You’re making a mistake.” He rises, looming over me, close enough that I can see the individual bands of color in his heterochromatic eye. “I’m offering you everything you need. You need me, Dr. Aster. I don’t need you.”

“No.” I stand my ground, even as my knees threaten to buckle. “You’re offering to own me. My clinic helps women take control of their fertility. Their choices. Their futures. I won’t compromise that. Not even for you.”

Something flickers in his eyes—respect? Frustration? But his voice stays glacial. “Then I suggest you start looking for new office space. Commercial rent in Boston is brutal this time of year.”

I shouldn’t feel betrayed. I’m no worse off than I was thirty minutes ago. He is exactly what I knew he was—exactly like all those other people at the gala.

“Goodbye, Mr. Safonov.” I turn, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. “Thank you for the shooting lesson. Next time someone tries to strong-arm me, I’ll know exactly where to aim.”

I don’t run. I don’t look back, either, but as much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I can’t help but acknowledge the weight of his stare and the way my hands still tingle where he touched them.

It’s not until I’m in my car that I let myself tremble. The memory of his warmth bleeds into the chill of his threats. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten, trying to forget how right it had felt, being in his arms.

For one dangerous moment, I’d wanted to lean back, turn my head, and find out if his mouth would be as gentle as it looked or as cruel as I’d heard it can be.

I start the engine. Time to go back to reality. I’ve got a struggling clinic and endless paperwork and patients who need me to be strong.

I need to forget Stefan Safonov.

But as I drive away from his house, I can still smell gunpowder on my clothes. I can feel the phantom press of his palm against my stomach. Hear his voice, rough with approval.

Good. You’re a natural.

Some lessons, it seems, are harder to unlearn than others.

And some men—the most dangerous kind—make you wish, just for a moment, that you were the type of woman who could say yes to the devil.

My office feels smaller today. I could almost swear the walls are closing in on me with each breath.

When I close my eyes, a different scene swims to life behind my eyelids. My white plaster office is gone; in its place is a long alleyway of cement. I can hear the bang of bullets leaving the chamber, feel his firm hands guiding mine on the gun, his chest pressed against my back, the heat of him seeping through my clothes.

You want a child? Try Tinder. But if you think I’ll sell my soul for your checkbook…

Those were my exact words to him. I delivered them with God-sent righteousness burning through my veins, chin lifted, shoulders squared. For one glorious moment, I felt powerful.

Then his eyes turned to ice.

“You need me, Dr. Aster. I don’t need you.”

And he was f*****g right.

That’s what infuriates me. Not just his arrogance or his obscene proposal, but that for one shameful second, I considered it.

I stare at the white orchids in my window—the ones I arranged so carefully only this morning, before everything went to hell. Their petals curl inward like they’re pouting, as if even the plants know better than to bloom for me today.

What kind of doctor am I, that I’d even contemplate selling a woman’s body to save my practice? My mother would be appalled. Not at the ethical breach—God knows she wouldn’t give a damn about that. She’d be enraged at my failure to close the deal.

Failing because of your morals is still failing, Olivia.

“Earth to Dr. A.” Camille throws a stress ball shaped like a uterus at my head. My office manager-s***h-head nurse-s***h-occasional-life-coach looks like a 1950s pinup girl went to business school, with her victory rolls and sharp pencil skirts. Right now, her winged eyeliner is narrowed in concern. “You’ve been staring at those flowers for twenty minutes. Either they insulted your mother or something happened at that meeting. And, no offense to your mom, but you wouldn’t be that upset if someone insulted her.”

I catch the flying uterus mid-air and squeeze it until the fallopian tubes bulge. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Camille closes the door and drops into the pink velvet visitor’s chair. “That’s why you’re all scrunchy-faced and frowny and smell like you just had s*x with a musket.” She pauses. “Wait. Did he actually⁠—?”

“If you ask if I had s*x with a weapon, you’re fired.”

Camille’s brows lunge upward, asking the question her mouth no longer can.

“He had a private shooting range in his basement.” My sigh turns into a hollow laugh. Talk about a red flag. “Apparently, I needed lessons in self-defense before we could discuss business.”

“Because of Frederick?” Camille shivers as if she was the one twice assaulted at the gala last night. “God, what a creep. Not Stefan—Frederick. You get it.” She waves an impatient hand at me and herself. “Anyway. Well?”

“And I learned that Russian billionaires have interesting ideas about foreplay.”

“So you did have s*x!”

“No!” Heat crawls up my neck as Camille’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “That was a joke. It’s not— I— He just showed me how to shoot. With his hands on my—” I stop, trapped by Camille’s knowing smirk. “Can we focus on the actual problem?”

“You mean your inability to tell a compelling story?” She groans. “I’m getting absolutely nothing over here. Where are the raunchy details?”

If I still have a business in two months, I should invest in an HR department. This place is toxic.

“The actual problem is that Stefan Safonov wants me to traffic him a womb, Cami.”

“Ooh, trafficking! That’s new. Black market or white glove delivery?”

“This isn’t funny. And it’s not a joke. He wants me to find a woman to give him an heir.” I shiver at the words, as if saying them will summon Stefan like the Russian Beetlejuice. “That isn’t our business model. It’s the literal exact opposite of our mission statement.”

I spent weeks drafting and rewriting the “About Us” section of my website. I can still rattle off the first paragraph by heart.

At Aster Fertility Solutions, we empower women to take control of their reproductive journey on their own terms. We believe that creating a family should never be limited by circumstances, but guided by personal choice and supported by compassionate expertise.

Or, in this case, it can be guided by financial desperation and the whims of a billionaire. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

Camille sobers up, at least insofar as she ever does. “Gross. Imperial surrogacy with an extra side of ethical nightmare.”

“Basically.” I pull Stefan’s proposal from my bag and slide it across the desk. I watch Camille’s expressions do a downward spiral as she reads the taped-together pages.

“So we’re talking full Handmaid’s Tale, but with better tailoring. What’d you tell him?” Camille asks.

“To choke on it.”

“Classy. And how’s that working with—” She flips open my laptop, revealing another overdraft alert. “—our imminent bankruptcy?”

In case I doubted the universe’s sense of humor, an email hits my inbox at that exact moment. It’s a new message from Dr. Walsh’s office—Thank you for referring Mrs. Alvarez! Attached is a photo of my former client grinning beside Walsh’s gold-embossed sign in her foyer.

I feel sick.

“Goddamn vulture,” Camille mutters over my shoulder. “She poached Alvarez? That’s our third traitor this week.”

“Fifth, actually.” I massage my temples, trying to work away the perma-headache that lives behind my eyes these days. “The Vasquez twins went over to the dark side yesterday.”

“Jesus. I didn’t know about them.” Camille collapses back in her chair, looking downright dejected. “They were weirdos, but they were our big break. Everyone wanted to know about the identical twins who wanted identical babies.”

“Well, now, they’re Walsh’s newest testimonial.” I pull up their joint i********: account, a feed dedicated to matching outfits and the identical sister-cousins I should’ve helped them create. But the most recent post shows both sisters tagged in a glowing review of their “new fertility journey” with Walsh’s clinic. “She offered them a two-for-one discount on their next round.”

“How can she even afford those rates? She’s practically giving treatments away.”

Camille is fuming, but I already mourned this loss in the bathtub this weekend. I drowned my denial in bubbles and my rage in a bottle of pinot grigio.

Now, I’m in the barren wasteland of acceptance. It sucks here.