CHAPTER 1: The Seventy Percent
Sybil
I sat rigid in the chair as I stared at the man sitting across from me. Mr. Gable had a spreadsheet open on his computer and he was not looking at me. He was looking at the numbers.
It was terrifying how quickly a human life could be reduced to a column of digits. My sister, Maya, was upstairs in a sterile room with machines breathing for her, but down here in the billing department, she was just an outstanding balance.
"I just need you to authorize the surgery," I said. My voice was steady. I refused to let it shake. "I will find the rest of the money by Friday. I can liquidate my retirement account and pull a loan against my salary."
Mr. Gable finally looked up. He adjusted his glasses and offered a look of practiced, professional sympathy. It was the exact look you give someone right before you announce their life is ruined.
"Ms. Adams, we have been over this," he said quietly. "The hospital board requires seventy percent upfront for experimental procedures. That is a strict policy. Without that initial deposit, the system literally will not allow me to authorize the surgical wing."
"Her numbers are dropping right now," I pressed. I gripped the edge of his desk. "If we wait until Friday to even start the paperwork, she might not make it. I am giving you a guarantee."
"A verbal guarantee does not cover a two million dollar procedure," he replied. He folded his hands together on top of his desk. "If the seventy percent is not in the hospital escrow account by the end of the week, Maya will be discharged on Sunday morning. We will transition her to palliative care."
Palliative care. That was a polite medical term for letting her die comfortably.
"I will get the money," I told him. I stood up and smoothed down my skirt, holding my chin high. "Do not discharge her."
I turned and walked out of his office before he could offer any more of his fake sympathy.
The subway ride back to my workplace was a complete blur. I swiped my badge at the ground floor security turnstile of Stavros Enterprises and stepped into the crowded elevator.
The massive glass building was a temple of wealth, a place where billion dollar deals were signed over casual lunches, yet I was standing inside it completely broke.
I worked in the mid-level strategy department on the forty-second floor. It paid well enough for a normal life, but I was not living a normal life. I was twenty-three years old and raising a dying teenager.
I sat down at my desk and stared blindly at my monitors. I needed a miracle. I needed to figure out how to commit corporate fraud, or rob a bank, or find a loan shark who would not break my kneecaps.
Before I could open a single spreadsheet, a red notification popped up on my screen. It was a high-priority, classified summons. The sender was the executive medical wing on the top floor.
I frowned at the screen. We had mandatory company health screenings two weeks ago. Usually, if your blood pressure was high, they sent you an automated email with a pamphlet about stress management. A direct, classified summons to the executive suite was entirely different. I grabbed my purse and headed back to the elevators.
The medical wing on the top floor looked less like a clinic and more like a luxury resort. There were no uncomfortable plastic chairs here. Everything was soft leather and polished wood. The receptionist checked my badge and buzzed me through a door at the end of the hallway.
Dr. Aris Thorne was waiting for me. He was the private physician for the executive board. He did not treat mid-level strategists.
He motioned for me to sit down in the plush leather chair opposite his massive desk. Then he walked over to the door and locked it.
Immediately the click of the lock echoed in the quiet room, my guard went up.
"Ms. Adams," Dr. Thorne said as he sat back down. "Thank you for coming up so quickly."
"Is there something wrong with my screening results?" I asked. I kept my posture straight and crossed my legs at the ankles. "If I need to follow up with my primary care doctor, you could have just sent an email."
"Your results are perfectly healthy," Thorne replied. He opened a thick manila folder on his desk and pulled out a stack of papers. "In fact, they are extraordinary. We ran a full genetic panel as part of the new corporate health initiative. Your bloodwork flagged a highly specific, very rare genetic anomaly. It is a marker that perhaps one in a million women possess."
"I do not understand," I said. "What do my genetics have to do with my job?"
"It has nothing to do with your job," Thorne said smoothly. He pushed a thick document across the desk. It had the bold letters of a Non-Disclosure Agreement printed on the first page. "I represent a private benefactor. He requires a surrogate who possesses your exact genetic marker to carry his child."
I stared at the doctor in absolute disbelief. A cold shock washed over my entire body. They did not want my corporate strategies. They wanted my body.
"You are out of your mind," I said softly. I started to stand up. "This is wildly inappropriate. I am reporting this to Human Resources."
"The compensation for this contract is five million dollars," Thorne said. His voice did not change pitch. "Half of it will be deposited into your account the moment you sign."
I froze. The threat of HR died instantly in my throat. Two and a half million dollars today. Maya's surgery was two million.
I slowly sank back into the chair. My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at the NDA on the desk and then back up at the doctor. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had access to my employee file. He knew I was the sole provider for a sick dependent.
"This benefactor," I started, my voice dropping to a whisper. "He is willing to pay that much just because of a genetic marker?"
"He is willing to pay that much," Thorne said. "And it is my understanding that you currently have no other choice either, Ms. Adams. We can authorize a wire transfer to the hospital escrow account within ten minutes of your signature."
It was a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire. I was being bought. I was selling away nine months of my life and a child I would carry, all to save the only family I had left. The desperation won. It always did.
I reached for the pen resting on top of the document. But my hand stopped an inch from the plastic barrel. I was desperate, but I was not foolish.
"I need to know who it is," I demanded. I looked Dr. Thorne directly in the eye. "I am not signing my body away to a ghost. Who am I doing this for?"
Thorne sighed. He did not say a single word. He simply reached out and tapped his index finger against the top of the second page.
I pulled the document closer. I scanned past the dense legal jargon until I reached the designated spaces for the signatures. My name was printed on the left side.
I looked to the right side. My stomach dropped violently, the air completely leaving my lungs. The name printed in bold black ink belonged to the anonymous benefactor.
Elias Stavros.
The ruthless, untouchable CEO of the very company I worked for.
