THE WIDOWED CEO'S TRIPLETS.

Chapter 1.

Lucía

The monitor showed my mother’s irregular heartbeat, an intermittent beep that no longer startled me. I’d heard it so many times it blended into the sterile hospital air, just like her raspy voice when she lifted her gaze toward me.

“I thought you wouldn’t come today,” she said, with a thread of effort.

“Of course I’m coming.”

I adjusted her blanket with practical movements, without pretending tenderness. I couldn’t force it, and she knew that better than anyone.

“You’re worse off than I am,” she murmured, attempting a smile that broke halfway.

“Don’t say nonsense,” I replied, keeping my eyes on her thin hands, gripping the sheet as if afraid to let go.

She didn’t insist. Neither did I. Talking was a luxury neither of us could afford; it used up strength that was running out.

The hospital bill grew like an inevitable shadow. I didn’t need to see the numbers to feel their weight: in the sharp tone of the nurses, in the evasive looks of the doctors, in how my mother apologized even for the air she breathed. It was a debt that would kill her before the illness did, if I didn’t do something.

I walked back to the apartment without thinking about anything, or at least trying not to. The moment I closed the door, the silence hit me like a reproach. I turned on the computer; a new email from work blinked in the inbox.

“Tomorrow: interviews for the surrogacy program. You will receive the candidates. Adrián and Claudia Valcourt will attend.”

It shouldn’t have impacted me. I’d spent weeks hearing rumors about it in the halls of Valcourt Enterprises. The Valcourts had tried everything: treatments, failed adoptions. Now they were looking for a surrogate. Money wasn’t an obstacle for them. It never was.

For me, it was.

I opened the file with the medical debts. The total had skyrocketed again, a red number that burned my eyes. I closed the tab before my hands began to tremble.

The payment they offered for surrogacy was enough to erase everything. I had seen it in passing in a draft contract while preparing documents. Enough for treatments, rehabilitation, even for a breath of relief. I didn’t think about it for more than three seconds. Or so I tried.

But the idea stuck, like a splinter.

I arrived early the next day. The interview room was cold and symmetrical, like everything at Valcourt Enterprises: immaculate glass walls, minimalist furniture that screamed power. I placed folders, water bottles, pens aligned. I reviewed the list of candidates. I didn’t have time for more.

Claudia Valcourt entered first, her heels marking a precise rhythm against the polished floor.

“Thank you, Lucía. We needed it ready today,” she said, scanning the room as if looking for cracks in perfection.

“It’s prepared,” I replied, neutral.

She nodded, but didn’t smile. Lately, her lips were a tense line, shaped by years of disappointment.

Adrián arrived behind her, tall and imposing, with that gaze that evaluated, dissected, and dismissed in a blink.

“Are they punctual?” he asked, without preamble.

“They’re already in the hallway,” I confirmed.

“Perfect. I don’t want to waste time.”

Claudia turned slightly toward him.

“We don’t want to treat this like a cold procedure either.”

“It’s a process,” he corrected, without looking at her. “Not an endless mourning.”

She inhaled deeply, a sigh he ignored. I didn’t. I saw the pain in her eyes, the abyss between them growing with every failed attempt.

The first candidate entered: a robust woman with a tense gaze and shoulders squared by life.

“I have two children,” she said before they asked, as if that defined her.

Adrián reviewed her papers coldly.

“Motive?”

“Debts. I need to start over.”

“I understand,” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t. Adrián Valcourt had never hit rock bottom.

Claudia observed her with a mix of empathy and distrust.

“Are you sure? This is hard, physically and emotionally.”

The woman lifted her chin, defiant.

“Harder is watching them go hungry.”

Adrián closed the folder with a snap.

“Next.”

There were no farewells. Just the door closing behind her.

The second was young, too young, with her hands intertwined and a feverish determination in her eyes.

“I’m ready,” she declared, like a mantra.

“That’s not the question,” Adrián replied without looking up. “The question is whether you’ll endure the nine months, the check-ups, the delivery.”

“Yes.”

“Good. If you lie, we’ll know. There are clauses for that.”

Claudia intervened, her voice soft but firm:

“Enough, Adrián. We’re not interrogating criminals.”

“We’re choosing who will carry our child,” he countered. “I’m not making another mistake.”

The girl swallowed visibly. I felt the knot in my own throat as if it were mine.

While they debated, something grew in me. Not a romantic impulse, not a heroic dream. A cold calculation. The women who came in had real reasons, broken lives I could understand, even if mine were different. But none had a mother tied to a monitor, with a bill suffocating her more than the cancer.

When I was left alone for a few minutes, I went for more forms. I touched the paper; it was cold, impersonal.

It could be me.

I didn’t want to think about it. But it was true: healthy, childless, available. And desperate.

I slipped an empty form into my bag, not knowing if it was courage, stupidity, or pure madness. Or all at once.

I stopped by the hospital at the end of the day. My mother slept, her chest rising and falling with effort. I sat beside her, in the dim light.

I took out the form, looked at it for a second under the faint glow, and put it away again.

“I’m getting you out of here,” I whispered.

I didn’t know if I was saying it to her… or to myself.