His Contract, My Womb

The hospital smells wrong. Like chemicals trying to cover up something dying. I'm sitting in the waiting room with bills in my lap. Red ink everywhere. Past due. Final notice. We're sorry, but. The numbers make me sick. Twenty-three thousand. Forty-one thousand. Sixteen thousand. I stopped crying about it. That was last month when the doctor said stage four. I cried so hard I couldn't breathe, and Mom had to hold me even though she's the one who's dying. She kept saying it's gonna be okay. She's lying. I love her, but she's lying. "Maya Chen?" I look up. There's a woman by the desk. Young. Blonde. She's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She probably smiles like this a hundred times a day at people like me. "Can we talk in my office?" I follow her down the hall. Everything here is too bright. Too clean. Her office is tiny. There's a poster about payment plans on the wall. I've already tried everything on that poster. She sits. I don't. "Your mother's treatment—" "I know. I'm working on it." "Miss Chen, we've been patient. But we can't keep doing her chemo without payment. Her next session is Friday." Three days. "I said I'm working on it." She does this thing with her hands. Folds them on the desk like she's praying. "There are other facilities. Places that work with people in your situation—" "You mean places where people go to die." Her smile cracks. "I didn't say that." "Give me two weeks." "I'm sorry. We have rules." Rules. Like rules matter more than my mom's life. I leave before I start screaming. Before I grab those bills and throw them at her face and tell her my mom is worth more than her stupid rules. I take the stairs. All six floors. My legs hurt, but I don't care. The pain feels better than the helplessness. Outside, it's freezing. January cold that goes straight through my jacket. I walk fast. Anywhere. I just need to move. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably another collections call. Another robot voice telling me I owe money I don't have. But it's an email. Re: Your Application - Surrogacy Program I forgot I even applied. Three weeks ago when I was desperate and googling anything. The website looked fake. Too easy. Make $80,000. Change your life. Eighty thousand would cover Mom's treatment. Maybe. I click it. Dear Ms. Chen, Thank you for your application to the Sunrise Surrogacy Network. We think you'd be perfect for one of our clients. This is a special arrangement. Our client needs a surrogate. He's offering $120,000. If you want to know more, reply to this email. One hundred twenty thousand dollars. I stop walking. Read it again. That's too much. Way too much. It has to be a scam. But what if it's not? I look back at the hospital. Mom's in there right now. Dying because I can't save her. I type back before I can think about it. I'm interested. Two days later, they send a car for me. A real car. Black and shiny with a driver who opens my door. I sit in the back and watch the city change. The buildings get taller. Richer. The kind of neighborhood I've never been to. We stop at this huge glass building. "Twentieth floor," the driver says. The elevator is all mirrors. I look terrible. My jeans are ripped. My coat is old. I didn't even try to look nice because I don't own anything nice. The twentieth floor is quiet. The kind of quiet that costs money. There's one door at the end of the hall. I knock. "Come in." A man's voice. Deep. Cold. I open the door. The office is huge. Windows everywhere showing the whole city. And there's a man standing by the window. He's tall. Dark hair. Perfect suit. He doesn't turn around yet. "Miss Chen." "Yeah." "Sit down." I sit in the chair across from his desk. It's leather. Expensive. I'm scared I'll mess it up. He turns around. He's young. Maybe thirty-something. Good-looking in a scary way. Sharp jaw. Gray eyes that don't smile. "I'm Dominic Hale," he says. "I'm the client." "Okay." He sits down. Looks at me like I'm something he's thinking about buying. "I'll be honest," he says. "I need a kid. An heir. But I don't need a wife. I don't need feelings. I need someone to carry my baby for a year and then walk away." My stomach drops. The way he says it. Like I'm a job. Not a person. "That's it?" "That's it." "And you'll pay one hundred twenty thousand dollars." "Yes. Twenty thousand when you sign. Twenty thousand each trimester. Forty thousand when you deliver." Twenty thousand up front. That's three months of Mom's treatment. Maybe more. "Why so much?" I ask. "Because I want no problems. No crying. No changing your mind. No trying to keep the baby." "You think I'd do that?" "People get attached," he says. "They want more. I'm paying you enough so you won't." He pushes a folder across the desk. "That's the contract. Read it. Think about it. You have twenty-four hours." I open it. Pages and pages of words I don't understand. But I see the number. $120,000. "Why me?" I ask. He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at me. Like he's looking for something in my face. "You fit what I need," he finally says. "Which is what?" "Healthy. Clean background. No family that'll cause problems." No family. He means nobody who cares enough to fight for me. He's right. It's just me and Mom. And she's dying. "I need time to think," I say. "Twenty-four hours. After that, I pick someone else." I stand up. My legs feel weak. "Miss Chen." I turn around. "This is business," he says. "Nothing more. If you can't do that, don't come back." I look at his cold eyes. Eyes that see me as nothing. Just a body he can use. "I can do it," I say. I walk out before my voice shakes. Outside, I can't breathe right. I lean against the building. My hands won't stop shaking. One hundred twenty thousand dollars. One year. One baby I'll never hold. I call the hospital. "I need the total cost," I tell the same woman from before. "Everything. For a full year of my mom's treatment." She puts me on hold. I wait. "Miss Chen? For the full treatment plan, you're looking at about one hundred fifteen thousand dollars." I close my eyes. "Okay. Thanks." I hang up. Then I open my email and send three words to Dominic Hale. I'll do it.