The mafia king’s surrogate

Ava's Pov The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the hospital ceiling. The second was my brother trying to smile at me. "Ethan." I sat upright so fast my neck protested. His lips curved weakly. "You fell asleep again." I looked down at the uncomfortable plastic chair beneath me and groaned. The clock on the wall read 6:47 a.m. I had spent another night in the hospital. Again. "Why didn't you wake me up?" I asked. Ethan shrugged. "Because you looked tired." My chest tightened. Tired. That was Ethan's favorite lie. He always acted like he wasn't the sick one. Like he wasn't the one whose heart could stop at any moment. Like he wasn't the reason I spent every waking second terrified. "You should've called me," I muttered. "You should've gone home." I forced a smile. "We both know that's not happening." His smile faded. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us. Heavy. Painful. Because we both knew why we were here. And neither of us wanted to say it out loud. The knock came a second later. Soft. Professional. The kind of knock that somehow made my stomach drop anyway. The doctor stepped inside. I immediately straightened. Doctors never looked that serious when they had good news. "Miss Bennett." My pulse quickened. "Doctor." "Could I speak with you outside for a moment?" I didn't miss the way Ethan's fingers tightened around his blanket. Neither did the doctor. "It's nothing to worry about," he said. That was another lie. Everyone in hospitals lied. They called it protecting people. I followed him into the hallway. The door closed behind us. The doctor handed me a tablet. "These are Ethan's latest results." I stared at the screen. Numbers. Charts. Medical terms. Most of it meant nothing to me. The doctor's expression did. "The condition is progressing faster than we anticipated." My stomach dropped. "No." His silence was answer enough. "No," I repeated. "You said the medication was helping." "It was." Was. Not is. Was. I suddenly hated that word. My fingers tightened around the tablet. "So what now?" The doctor exhaled. "There is a surgical option." Hope hit me so fast it hurt. "Then we'll do the surgery." His expression didn't change. And just like that, my hope died. "How much?" I asked quietly. The doctor named the amount. The hallway went silent. I actually laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was impossible. Completely impossible. People like us didn't have that kind of money. Not even close. "There has to be another option." His silence answered me again. I hated that silence. It followed me all the way back into Ethan's room. It followed me to the parking lot. It followed me onto the bus. And it followed me into my apartment. The moment I stepped inside, I dropped my bag and sank onto the couch. The hospital estimate sat in my inbox. Unread. As if refusing to open it would somehow make the number smaller. My phone buzzed. An email notification. Then another. And another. Most were bills. One was from my landlord . I opened that one first. My stomach twisted. FINAL NOTICE I closed it immediately. No point torturing myself. The money wasn't there. The rent wasn't paid. And my brother needed surgery. Life was becoming a very cruel joke. I opened social media purely to distract myself. Five minutes. That was all I wanted. Five minutes without thinking about hospitals or bills or debt. Instead, the ad appeared again. The same one I'd been seeing for weeks. Elite Fertility Program I rolled my eyes. "There you are." The thing was practically stalking me at this point. Every time I opened social media, it appeared. Every. Single. Time. A beautiful smiling woman. A luxury clinic. Promises of life-changing compensation. I always ignored it. Because nothing offering that much money was ever real. At least not for people like me. I scrolled past it. Then stopped. My thumb hovered over the screen. Slowly, I scrolled back up. The ad stared back at me. Life-changing compensation. I glanced toward my laptop. Toward my unopened hospital estimate. Toward the stack of bills on the table. Then back to the ad. For the first time, I clicked it. The page loaded instantly. No flashing pop-ups. No suspicious links. No obvious signs of a scam. Just a clean website. Professional. Simple. Legitimate. I frowned. Then started reading. Private surrogacy placement. Medical coverage included. Legal protection included. Compensation beginning at five hundred thousand dollars. My breath caught. Five hundred thousand. I read the number again. And again. Then I opened another tab. Started researching. The clinic existed. The licenses were real. The reviews were real. Everything was real. I sat frozen. Because suddenly this wasn't a ridiculous internet scam anymore. It was an opportunity. A terrifying one. But an opportunity nonetheless. I looked around my tiny apartment. At the unpaid bills. At the overdue notices. At the life that seemed to be collapsing piece by piece. Then I thought about Ethan. His smile. His lies. His determination to pretend everything was fine. My eyes burned. Before I could lose my nerve, I clicked APPLY. The application was longer than expected. Personal details. Medical history. Family history. Dozens of questions. By the time I finished, nearly an hour had passed. I stared at the final button. SUBMIT APPLICATION. One click. That was all. One click and I was officially considering becoming a surrogate for a stranger. My finger trembled slightly. Then I pressed it. The confirmation page appeared immediately. Thank you for your application. Selected candidates will be contacted via email. That was it. No fireworks. No miracle. Just a confirmation message. I closed the laptop. Honestly, I didn't expect anything. Programs like this probably received thousands of applications. Women prettier than me. Healthier than me. More qualified than me. I stood and headed toward the shower. By the time I finished, I'd almost convinced myself the whole thing had been a waste of time. Then my phone buzzed. An email. I barely looked at it. Until I saw the sender. Elite Fertility Program. My heartbeat stumbled. Slowly, I opened it. Then froze. The first line read: Congratulations, Ava Bennett. My eyes widened. I continued reading. You have been invited to attend a private screening appointment. Tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. Attached below was the clinic address. For a long moment, I simply stared. Because for the first time since leaving the hospital... I wasn't looking at a dead end. I was looking at a door. And I had absolutely no idea what waited on the other side.