Pregnant by the Billionaire's Contract

The clock on Zayah's computer screen showed 9:47 PM. She rubbed her tired eyes and looked at the numbers on her spreadsheet again. They still didn't add up. Around her, the office was empty. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The cleaning crew had already passed through, leaving behind the smell of lemon cleaner and the hum of vacuum cleaners in the distance. Zayah was alone. Again. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above her head. She'd been at work since seven this morning. Fourteen hours. Her back ached. Her head throbbed. Her stomach growled because she'd skipped lunch to finish a report. But she couldn't go home yet. Not until she finished this budget analysis for tomorrow's meeting. Her phone vibrated on the desk. Zayah picked it up and saw her younger sister's name on the screen. Mia: Mom's asking for you. When are you coming home? Guilt twisted in Zayah's stomach. She typed back quickly. Zayah: Soon. Tell her I love her. She put the phone down and went back to her spreadsheet. But the numbers blurred together. All she could think about was her mother, lying in that hospital bed, getting weaker every day. Cancer. The word still felt like a punch to her chest every time she thought it. Her mother had been diagnosed six months ago. Stage three breast cancer. The doctors said she needed aggressive treatment—chemotherapy, radiation, possibly surgery. The kind of treatment that cost money. Lots of money. Money that Zayah didn't have. She pulled up her bank account on her phone and stared at the balance: $247.68. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars. That was all she had left after paying this month's bills. The rent was $1,200. Her mother's medication was $340. Her sister's school supplies were $85. Groceries, utilities, bus fare—it all added up until there was nothing left. And the medical bills kept coming. Envelopes with red stamps that said FINAL NOTICE. Phone calls from collection agencies. Threats of lawsuits. Zayah had taken out loans. She'd maxed out her credit cards. She'd borrowed money from friends who'd stopped answering her calls. She owed $75,000 and had no way to pay it back. Her phone vibrated again. This time it wasn't her sister. Derek: Where are you? Zayah's stomach dropped. She checked the time. Almost ten o'clock. Derek would be angry. He was always angry when she worked late. Zayah: Still at the office. I'll be home soon. She waited, watching the screen. The three dots appeared, showing he was typing. Then they disappeared. Then appeared again. Derek: You better be. We need to talk. Four words. That's all it took to make Zayah's hands start shaking. We need to talk never meant anything good with Derek. It meant she'd done something wrong. It meant he was upset. It meant she needed to be careful. She saved her work and shut down her computer. Her fingers fumbled with her keys as she gathered her things. She wanted to stay here, in the quiet safety of the empty office. But she couldn't hide forever. The bus ride home took forty minutes. Zayah sat in the back, watching the city lights blur past the window. Her reflection stared back at her,a tired twenty-four-year-old woman who looked ten years older. When had she become this person? When had her life turned into this endless cycle of work, worry, and fear? She thought about two years ago, when she'd first met Derek. He'd seemed so different then. Charming. Supportive. He'd taken her out to nice restaurants. He'd made her laugh. He'd told her she was beautiful. When her mother got sick, Derek had been there. He'd driven her to the hospital. He'd held her hand during the worst days. He'd promised to help her through it. But slowly, things changed. First, it was small things. He'd get annoyed if she was too tired to go out. He'd make comments about her clothes, her hair, her weight. He'd check her phone to see who she was texting. Then it got worse. He started borrowing money from her. Twenty dollars here, fifty dollars there. He always promised to pay her back, but he never did. When she asked about it, he'd get angry. He'd say she was being selfish. He'd remind her of everything he'd done for her. Then came the first time he hit her. Zayah remembered it clearly. She'd asked him to pay back the $200 he owed her because she needed it for her mother's medication. He'd been drinking. His face had gone red. And then his hand had connected with her cheek so hard that she'd seen stars. He'd apologized afterward. He'd cried. He'd sworn it would never happen again. But it did happen again. And again. And again. Now, six months later, Zayah wore long sleeves even in summer. She covered the bruises with makeup. She lied to her coworkers when they asked if she was okay. And she stayed. Because leaving felt impossible. Because Derek knew where her mother was. Because he'd threatened to hurt her family if she tried to run. Because she was trapped. The bus stopped at her corner. Zayah got off and walked the three blocks to the small apartment she shared with Derek. Each step felt heavier than the last. The apartment building was old and run-down. The paint was peeling. The hallway smelled like cigarettes and old cooking grease. Zayah climbed the stairs to the third floor, her heart pounding harder with each step. She could hear the TV from outside the apartment. That was good. If Derek was watching TV, maybe he wasn't too angry. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was small—just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room barely big enough for a couch and TV. Empty beer bottles covered the coffee table. The sink was full of dirty dishes. Derek sat on the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. He didn't look at her when she came in. "You're late," he said. "I'm sorry. I had to finish some work for tomorrow's meeting." Zayah kept her voice soft and calm. She set her bag down by the door and took off her shoes. "You're always working late." Derek finally looked at her. His eyes were red. He'd been drinking. "You care more about that job than you care about me." "That's not true." Zayah moved toward the kitchen. "I just needed to—" "Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you." Zayah froze. She turned back to face him slowly. Derek stood up from the couch. He was bigger than her—six feet tall, broad shoulders, hands that could hurt. Hands that had hurt. "I needed you tonight," he said, walking toward her. "I had plans. I was going to take you out. But you were too busy working." "I didn't know. You didn't tell me…" she said. "I shouldn't have to tell you!" His voice rose. "You should want to spend time with me. But instead, you're always at work or visiting your sick mother or worrying about your sister. What about me, Zayah? What about what I need?" Zayah's back pressed against the wall. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it" "You never mean it. But you keep doing it." Derek was right in front of her now. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. "You keep putting me last. You keep taking me for granted." "I don't…" "Shut up." His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Not gently. His fingers dug into her skin, and Zayah knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "I do everything for you. I let you live here. I support you. And this is how you treat me?" "Derek, please" "Please what?" His grip tightened. "Please forgive you? Please understand? I'm tired of understanding, Zayah. I'm tired of being patient." Tears burned in Zayah's eyes. She wanted to pull away, but she knew better. Moving would only make it worse. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll do better. I promise." Derek stared at her for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he let go. Zayah nearly collapsed with relief. "You better," he said, turning away. "Because I'm running out of patience with you." He grabbed another beer from the fridge and went back to the couch. Just like that, the moment was over. Like nothing had happened. Zayah stood against the wall, her arm throbbing where he'd grabbed her. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to call someone for help. But who would she call? Her mother was too sick. Her sister was too young. She had no close friends left,Derek had driven them all away. She was alone. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. With shaking hands, she pulled it out. It was a call from the hospital. Mercy General. The same hospital where her mother was staying. Zayah's heart stopped. They never called this late unless something was wrong. "I need to take this," she said quietly. Derek waved his hand dismissively, his eyes back on the TV. Zayah hurried to the bedroom and closed the door. She answered the call with trembling fingers. "Hello?" "Miss Kade?" The voice on the other end was a woman's—calm but urgent. "This is Nurse Williams from Mercy General. I'm calling about your mother." The room tilted. Zayah sat down on the edge of the bed. "Is she okay? What happened?" "Your mother's condition has worsened. She needs emergency surgery as soon as possible. The doctor wants to meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss the procedure." "Surgery?" Zayah's voice came out as a whisper. "What kind of surgery?" "The cancer has spread more than we initially thought. Without immediate intervention..." The nurse paused. "The doctor will explain everything tomorrow. But Miss Kade, I need to be honest with you. This surgery is expensive. And your mother's insurance won't cover it." Of course it won't, Zayah thought bitterly. Nothing was ever covered. "How much?" she asked, though she was terrified of the answer. Another pause. Longer this time. "Eight thousand dollars. I'm so sorry." Eight thousand dollars. Zayah felt like she was drowning. Like the walls were closing in. Like the air had been sucked out of the room. Eight thousand dollars. She didn't have eight hundred dollars. She didn't have eighty dollars. "I understand this is difficult," Nurse Williams continued. "But we need to schedule the surgery soon. Within the next few days. After that..." She didn't finish the sentence. After that, her mother would die. "I'll find a way," Zayah said, though she had no idea how. "I'll be there tomorrow morning." She ended the call and sat in the dark bedroom, her phone clutched in her hand. Eight thousand dollars. Where would she get eight thousand dollars? She'd already borrowed from everyone she knew. She'd already maxed out her credit cards. The banks had denied her loan applications. She had nothing left to sell, nothing left to give. Nothing except... A terrible thought crept into her mind. A thought she immediately tried to push away. At work, she handled money transfers every day. Hundreds of thousands of dollars passed through her hands. Company funds that she moved from one account to another with just a few clicks. It would be so easy. Just one transfer. Eight thousand dollars. She could pay it back slowly, before anyone noticed. It wasn't really stealing if she planned to return it. Was it? Zayah shook her head. No. She couldn't. That was wrong. That was illegal. But letting her mother die—that was wrong too. Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Derek. Derek: Come back out here. And bring me another beer. Zayah stared at the message. Then she looked at the missed call from the hospital. Then at her bank account showing $247.68. Her mother was dying. Derek was hurting her. She was drowning in debt with no way out. Something had to give. Something had to break. She just didn't know it would be her. Zayah stood up slowly and walked to the door. Her hand rested on the doorknob for a moment. On the other side, Derek was waiting. Demanding. Controlling. And tomorrow, the hospital would be waiting for an answer she didn't have. She opened the door and stepped back into her nightmare.