The contract
1047 Words
Ava's pov
I didn’t sign it.
Not that day.
Or the day after.
The folder sat on my kitchen table for three days straight.
Three days of staring at it.
Avoiding it.
Opening it.
Closing it.
Reading the same pages over and over again.
As if the words would somehow change.
As if five hundred thousand dollars would suddenly become a typo.
As if Ethan would miraculously get better on his own.
Neither happened.
Life kept moving.
The bills kept arriving.
And Ethan kept getting weaker.
“Ava?”
I looked up.
Ethan was watching me from his hospital bed.
Watching the contract folder sitting in my lap.
His expression immediately told me he knew exactly what I was reading.
Again.
“You’ve been carrying that thing around for days.”
I sighed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.”
I closed the folder.
My head hurt.
Everything hurt.
The decision felt impossible.
Not because I didn’t want the money.
I did.
Desperately.
It was what the money required.
Trust.
Risk.
Giving a stranger something no amount of money could truly pay for.
“I don’t like this,” Ethan admitted quietly.
I smiled weakly.
“That makes two of us.”
“No, I mean it.”
His voice grew serious.
“If you’re doing this because of me—”
“I am.”
His jaw tightened.
“Ava.”
“Ethan.”
Neither of us looked away.
Then he shook his head.
“I don’t want you sacrificing your future for mine.”
The words pierced deeper than he realized.
Because he still didn’t understand.
There was no future for me if I lost him.
Not one I wanted.
“You’re my family,” I said softly.
His eyes dropped.
For a moment, he looked very young.
Not like my older brother.
Just someone tired.
Someone scared.
Someone trying not to show it.
“I hate being the reason you’re suffering.”
My chest tightened.
I reached over and squeezed his hand.
“Then stop being dramatic.”
He laughed despite himself.
The sound eased some of the pressure crushing my chest.
Just a little.
That night, I signed the contract.
Not because I stopped being afraid.
Because I didn’t.
Not because I suddenly felt confident.
Because I wasn’t.
I signed because every other option had disappeared.
And sometimes survival didn’t look heroic.
Sometimes it looked like a trembling hand holding a pen.
The final signature took less than two seconds.
The consequences would last much longer.
The moment I finished, I stared at my name on the page.
Ava Bennett.
It looked exactly the same.
Yet somehow everything felt different.
Like my life had quietly shifted onto another path.
One I couldn’t leave anymore.
The clinic emailed the next morning.
My final medical appointment had been scheduled.
Friday.
8:00 a.m.
Procedure preparation.
I read the email twice.
Then closed my laptop.
My stomach immediately twisted.
Friday.
Two days away.
Two days before everything became real.
The clinic was busier than usual.
Doctors moved through the hallways.
Nurses carried files.
Staff spoke in low voices.
Everyone seemed to be working toward some invisible deadline.
A nurse led me into another examination room.
Blood tests.
Vitals.
Questions.
More forms.
Everything blurred together.
By the time they finished, I was exhausted.
I stepped back into the hallway.
And nearly collided with someone.
The man caught my arm before I lost my balance.
“Careful.”
I looked up immediately.
Dark suit.
Earpiece.
Security.
Definitely security.
He released me at once.
Professional.
Emotionless.
Like a machine.
“Sorry,” I said.
He nodded once and walked away.
Only then did I notice something strange.
The hallway had gone quiet.
Not completely.
Just enough.
People were suddenly moving faster.
Speaking softer.
Watching the elevators.
A nurse rushed past me.
Another followed.
Then another.
My curiosity flared.
“What happened?” I asked the receptionist.
The woman immediately straightened.
“N-nothing.”
It was the least convincing answer I’d ever heard.
I glanced toward the elevators.
The doors opened.
Several security guards stepped out.
More than before.
Much more.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Like someone important had arrived.
Very important.
Conversations stopped.
Phones disappeared.
Shoulders straightened.
My pulse quickened.
The security team moved first.
Creating space.
Then someone stepped out behind them.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed entirely in black.
His face remained partially hidden as he turned toward a private corridor.
But somehow every eye in the hallway followed him.
Including mine.
He never looked in our direction.
Never acknowledged anyone.
Yet the entire building seemed to orbit around him.
Power radiated from him so naturally it felt unsettling.
The group disappeared down the corridor.
And just like that, the tension returned to normal.
People began breathing again.
Talking again.
Moving again.
As if a storm had briefly passed through.
I looked toward the receptionist.
Her face had gone pale.
“Who is he?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
She hesitated.
Then lowered her voice.
So low I almost didn’t hear her.
“Dante Moretti.”
The name hit harder this time.
Not because it was unfamiliar.
Because now it had a face.
Or at least part of one.
Real.
Not a rumor.
Not a story.
Real.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain…
A strange feeling settled in my chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something else.
Something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
That evening, I returned home exhausted.
The clinic had confirmed everything.
The procedure was scheduled.
The contract was active.
There was no backing out now.
I dropped onto my couch and opened my email.
A new message waited in my inbox.
From the clinic.
I opened it immediately.
At first, it looked normal.
Procedure instructions.
Arrival time.
Medical requirements.
Then my eyes reached the final paragraph.
And froze.
Congratulations, Ava Bennett.
You have officially been selected as the surrogate for our intended parent.
Below it was one final line.
A line that made my heart stop.
The intended parent has personally approved your file.
I stared at the words.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Personally approved?
How?
Why?
The clinic had hundreds of applicants.
Maybe thousands.
Why would someone that important personally review files?
And more importantly…
Why had they chosen mine?
- Writer
