His Contract, My Womb

Chapter 2: The Envelope Waits

The contract arrives the next morning.

A black car pulls up outside my apartment building at eight a.m. The same driver from before. He hands me a thick envelope through the window.

"Mr. Hale expects your answer by noon," he says.

Then he's gone.

I stand on the sidewalk in my pajamas holding this envelope. It's heavy. Expensive paper. The kind that costs more than my grocery bill.

Inside my apartment, I make coffee I can't afford and sit at my kitchen table. The table wobbles. It's always wobbled. I keep meaning to fix it.

I open the envelope.

The contract is even thicker than I remember. Pages and pages of legal words that might as well be another language. I try to read it. I really do.

The Surrogate agrees to carry the Child to term.

The Surrogate agrees to follow all medical instructions provided by the Client's chosen physician.

The Surrogate agrees to maintain a healthy lifestyle including but not limited to...

It goes on and on. Rules about what I can eat. What I can't drink. Where I can go. Who I can see.

There's a section about termination. My stomach turns reading it.

In the event of miscarriage or medical necessity requiring termination, the Surrogate will receive $10,000 as compensation for time served.

Time served. Like I'm going to prison.

I flip to the end. There's a line for my signature. And another number.

$120,000.

My phone rings. It's the hospital. I already know what they're gonna say.

"Miss Chen, this is a courtesy call to remind you that your mother's treatment session scheduled for tomorrow has been canceled due to outstanding balance—"

I hang up.

My hands are shaking again. I look at the contract. At that number.

I think about Mom in that hospital bed. How small she looked last time I saw her. How her hair is almost gone now. How she tried to smile when I walked in even though I know she's in pain.

I think about the doctor's voice. Stage four. Advanced. Aggressive.

I think about time. How we're running out of it.

I pick up the pen.

My hand hovers over the line.

This is insane. I know it's insane. You don't just agree to have a stranger's baby. You don't sell your body for a year. You don't sign away your rights to a child you're gonna grow inside you.

But Mom's dying.

And this is the only way to save her.

I sign my name. Maya Chen. It looks so small on the page.

I take a picture of the signature page and email it to the address on the letterhead.

Then I sit there. Waiting. Staring at my phone.

Three minutes later, it buzzes.

Contract received. Wire transfer initiated. Please report to Dr. Sarah Lindholm's office tomorrow at 9 a.m. for initial examination. Address below.

That's it. No congratulations. No thank you. Just instructions.

I check my bank account. Nothing yet. But it's coming. Twenty thousand dollars is coming.

I call the hospital back.

"This is Maya Chen. I'm calling about my mother, Linda Chen. I want to make a payment on her account."

"How much would you like to pay?"

"Enough to restart her treatment. Today."

There's a pause. Typing.

"That would be approximately eight thousand dollars to bring the account current and cover the next session."

"I'll have it by this afternoon."

"Miss Chen, we need payment before—"

"You'll have it. I promise."

I hang up before she can argue.

The money hits my account at two p.m.

I stare at the number on my phone screen. Twenty thousand dollars. More money than I've ever seen in my life. More money than I thought I'd ever have.

It doesn't feel real.

I transfer eight thousand to the hospital immediately. Then I sit there looking at what's left. Twelve thousand dollars.

I could pay rent for a year. I could fix my car. I could buy a winter coat that actually keeps me warm.

But I don't do any of that.

Because this money isn't mine. Not really. It's payment for something I haven't done yet. Something I'm not sure I can actually do.

I'm selling my body to a man I don't know.

I'm gonna have his baby and then give it away.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

Don't be late tomorrow. Dr. Lindholm doesn't wait.

No name. But I know it's him. Dominic Hale.

I don't text back.

That night I visit Mom.

She's awake when I get there. Sitting up in bed watching some cooking show on the tiny TV. She smiles when she sees me.

"There's my girl."

I kiss her forehead. She feels too warm.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know. Living the dream." She laughs, but it turns into a cough.

I pour her water from the pitcher by her bed. Help her drink.

"The nurse said they're restarting your treatment," she says. "Tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Maya." She takes my hand. Her skin is so thin now. Like paper. "Where did you get the money?"

I knew she'd ask. I practiced the lie on the way here.

"I got a job. A really good job. It pays well."

"What kind of job?"

"Administrative assistant. For a... for a company downtown."

She studies my face. She's always been able to tell when I'm lying. Even when I was little.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mom. I promise."

Another lie.

She squeezes my hand. "You're a good girl, Maya. Too good. Don't forget to live your own life, okay? Don't just... don't just spend it all taking care of me."

My throat gets tight. "You're my mom. That's what I'm supposed to do."

"I'm serious. When I'm gone—"

"Don't."

"Maya—"

"You're not going anywhere. You're gonna beat this. The treatment's gonna work."

She looks at me with these sad eyes. Like she knows something I don't want to hear.

"Okay, baby," she says softly. "Okay."

I stay until she falls asleep. Then I kiss her forehead again and leave before I start crying.

In my car, I sit in the dark parking lot and let myself break down. Just for a minute. Just enough to get it out.

Then I wipe my face and drive home.

Tomorrow I have a doctor's appointment. Tomorrow they're gonna examine me. Make sure I'm healthy enough. Make sure I can do what Dominic Hale is paying me to do.

Tomorrow this becomes real.

I barely sleep that night.

Dr. Lindholm's office is in a building even nicer than Dominic's. All glass and marble and plants that probably cost more than my rent.

The receptionist is expecting me. She hands me a clipboard with forms. Medical history. Emergency contact. Insurance information.

I leave the insurance section blank. I don't have insurance. That's part of why we're in this mess.

"Miss Chen?"

A woman in a white coat stands by the door. She's older, maybe fifty. Short gray hair. Kind eyes.

"I'm Dr. Lindholm. Come on back."

Her exam room is clean and cold. She has me sit on the table while she reviews my forms.

"No major medical issues. Good. Any history of pregnancy?"

"No."

"s****l activity?"

My face gets hot. "Not... not recently."

She doesn't react. Just writes something down. "We'll need to run a full panel. Blood work, STD screening, genetic testing. Mr. Hale is very particular about health requirements."

Mr. Hale. She says his name like she knows him. Like they've done this before.

"Has he done this before?" I ask. "The surrogate thing?"

She looks up. "I can't discuss other patients."

So that's a yes.

She does the exam. It's uncomfortable and embarrassing and I stare at the ceiling the whole time. She takes what feels like a hundred vials of blood. Then she has me pee in a cup.

"Results will take a few days," she says when we're done. "If everything comes back clear, we'll schedule the procedure."

"The procedure?"

"The embryo transfer. Mr. Hale is using IVF. We'll implant the embryo once your cycle is optimal."

Right. Because of course he's not gonna... we're not gonna actually...

I feel stupid for not realizing that sooner.

"Any questions?" she asks.

About a million. But I just shake my head.

"You can get dressed. The receptionist will schedule your follow-up."

She leaves. I sit there in the paper gown feeling empty and cold.

This is really happening.

I get dressed and schedule the follow-up. Then I leave and stand outside in the cold air trying to remember how to breathe normally.

My phone buzzes.

Another text from the unknown number.

Dr. Lindholm will send me your results. If you pass, we'll proceed. If you don't, the contract is void and you'll return the twenty thousand.

My heart stops.

Return it? I already spent eight thousand of it. On Mom's treatment.

I text back fast.

What if I don't pass?

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Finally, a response.

You will.

I stare at those two words.

He sounds so sure. Like he already knows something I don't.

Like he chose me for a reason that has nothing to do with my application.

I think about what he said in his office. You fit what I need.

Not you applied. Not you're qualified.

You fit.

Like he was looking for someone specific.

Like he was looking for me.

My hands start shaking again.

I call the surrogacy agency. The number goes straight to a generic voicemail.

I google Dominic Hale.

Pages and pages of results. Articles about his company. His net worth. Pictures of him at charity events in expensive suits with beautiful women on his arm.

I scroll and scroll.

And then I see it.

An article from five years ago.

Tech Mogul Dominic Hale Mourns Loss of Girlfriend in Tragic Accident.

There's a picture. Dominic, younger, standing at a funeral. His face blank. Empty.

And next to him, in a smaller photo, is the girl who died.

My heart stops completely.

Because I know that face.

I've seen it in mirrors my whole life.

Emma Torres. Twenty-two years old when she died.

She looks exactly like me.

Same dark hair. Same small frame. Same eyes. Same face.

We could be twins.

My hands won't stop shaking. I zoom in on the photo until it gets blurry.

It's like looking at myself in a different life.

Why does she look like me?

Why did Dominic choose me?

I read the article three times. Four times. Looking for answers.

Emma Torres, 22, was killed in a single-vehicle accident on Route 9. She is survived by her parents, Michael and Susan Torres, and her boyfriend, Dominic Hale.

Nothing about why she looks like me. Nothing that explains this.

But Dominic knows.

He has to know.

That's why he picked me. Not because I'm healthy. Not because I'm convenient.

Because I look like the girl he lost.

I'm not carrying his future.

I'm replacing his past.