Nine Months Till Forever

Chapter Four: The Office At The Top

A day passed, then the answer showed up.

Something else had crossed Elara’s mind. Not a single ring, not even a note asking for past contacts. Only a message arrived - short, straight to the point.

Miss Whitmore,

A note has reached us from you - appreciated. Come by the location listed here the day after today when clocks hit eleven. Look for a room marked under Kingsley's name. The place will know where to guide you.

Discretion is appreciated.

Beneath it lay a Canary Wharf address, followed by a suite number better suited to a sky-level apartment than a workspace.

Three times, Elara went over the words. Not just any name - Julian Kingsley. Same one on the flyer, inside that unopened envelope resting nearby. Like a door clicking locked behind her, though she’d stepped through on purpose.

That day, her clothes had to be right. Navy trousers hung just off her hips, a touch baggy. A handmade cream shirt finished the look. Maybe it said competent. Probably just whispered trying hard. Yet the glass told another story - dull circles beneath her gaze, lips pressed thin. Ready. Not calm. Just waiting.

Footsteps carried her from Bethnal Green toward Canary Wharf, one world fading as another took shape. Tight lanes full of noise and colour slowly opened into broad walkways swept by gusts, where glass spires cut through dull skies. Figures strode past with fixed eyes, voices snapped into phones, fabric rustling under stiff collars. She drifted between them, unnoticed, soft soles brushing cold floors without sound.

A hush filled the lobby like it had never known sound. Steel walls stood tall outside, covered in glass that reflected nothing back. She got directions from a guard who barely moved his head. The elevator needed a card just to see inside. Once open, there she was - a woman dressed in smooth grey fabric, standing still.

“Miss Whitmore? Mr. Kingsley is ready for you. This way.”

A space like that hardly felt like work. Pale wood underfoot, glass on every side - light poured in, bounced off everything. Beyond the windows, London sat small, almost pretend, down by the river. No clutter here. Nothing but a long table, pair of chairs, stillness so deep it cost something just to stand inside it.

And him.

Outside, the light faded behind him, shaping a dark outline along the glass. Not quite what she expected in height - taller, yes, but carrying himself like someone used to being watched. Age hovered near thirty-five, give or take. What caught her wasn’t the look of him, though. It was how he simply stayed there, unmoving, while seconds passed without sound. Most people shift, glance back, break under quiet. He let it stretch, unbothered.

"Miss Whitmore." The man shifted his weight. Calm, clipped tones shaped her name - polite without warmth. Take a seat, he meant to say, though it came out smoother than that.

A kind of handsomeness that seemed planned - the sharp line of his jaw, those calm gray eyes, hair arranged just right without trying too hard. The suit he had on likely ran higher than what her dad paid for an operation. Yet nothing showed on his face. Not harshness. Not kindness either. Simply closed off.

Suddenly still, Elara lowered the old bag onto her legs. It settled there, heavy, as if meant to block something.

Across the table he sat, hands pressed together like a tent. Grateful for your arrival here - this odd meeting was not lost on him

She spoke up, though her hands trembled - her words firmer than her nerves allowed.

That was on purpose. His eyes moved over her, like measuring a painting. A tailor - that’s what you are

“Yes.”

“You care for your father. Arthur, is it?”

She tensed. “How do you know that?”

“I make it my business to know who I’m meeting.” He said it without apology. “His condition is serious. The NHS waiting list is long. Private care is expensive.”

Elara’s knuckles whitened on her bag. “Is this an interview or an investigation?”

“It’s a clarification.” He leaned forward slightly. “The role I’m offering is not administrative. It’s not care work in the traditional sense.” He paused, his gaze holding hers. “I am looking for a surrogate mother.”

Stillness followed each syllable, sharp like broken glass.

Her eyes fluttered open. For one breath, she believed her ears had tricked her. Substitute. That term curled through her thoughts, sharp and distant.

“I… don’t understand.”

“I need a child. An heir, to be blunt. I require someone to carry that child for me. Under a strictly legal, private arrangement. Full medical care provided. And upon successful delivery, a compensation package that would solve your financial problems. Permanently.”

Flat tone throughout, like reading terms of a contract. Not a hint of feeling. Only what happened. Facts stood alone.

Everything shifted under Elara’s feet. Sky blurred into walls, then his still expression floated past like smoke. Her fingers tightened on the chair's rim. A breath held too long finally broke.

“You want me… to have your baby.”

“I want you to carry a child conceived through IVF. My biological child. You would be the gestational carrier. You would have no legal parental rights. The contract would be clear, and generous.”

Funny how he framed it - like extra luck, rather than just living.

Who else? That thought came soft. A breath, almost.

“You’re healthy. You’re intelligent. You’re in a situation where the compensation would be… transformative. And you have a strength about you. Resilience.” He said it like a quality he’d verified on a report. “This isn’t a decision to be made lightly. Thinking it over carefully makes sense. Still, a reply has to come by Friday

Up she rose. Across the floorboards, the chair sighed in protest. "A week? Not necessary. My reply won’t change - no."

Surprise never showed on his face. A nod came next. "It makes sense," he said

“Do you?” Anger, hot and sudden, rose in her chest. “You sit here in this… this tower, and you think you can buy a person? A baby? My body?”

He met her gaze, unflinching. “I’m offering a choice. A transaction between consenting adults. One that would save your father’s life. I’m not forcing you. I’m presenting an option.”

“It’s not an option. It’s grotesque.”

“Is it more grotesque than letting your father die while you stitch dresses for brides who’ll never know your name?”

Off balance, she gasped. The strike hit true, without sound.

Quiet, he stayed. Just laid out what balanced the scale. What she carried each morning when waking.

Off she went, moving fast. Across the wide space her feet took her, heading straight for the lift. Not a trace of the woman in grey remained. The button got pressed hard, Elara’s eyes losing focus.

The floor dropped beneath her feet. Numbers blinked lower while her stomach lifted, like drifting off a cliff in slow motion.

Outside the spinning door, cold wetness met her skin. A gust brushed her cheek, then - trembling began deep in her hands.

Off she went, nowhere in mind, moving beyond the tall glass buildings, heading for the water. Grey waves slapped at the Thames, showing back no image at all.

Your dad’s survival depends on it.

Could it be seen as uglier?

Fingers curled around the rail, chill biting through fabric. Memories surfaced - his palm warm in hers among sterile hallways. Nighttime whispers echoed, that soft utterance of her name hanging in quiet rooms.

Floating back came the memory - Julian Kingsley’s steady voice, so cool it barely stirred the air. Not love, but terms laid bare on paper. One life shaped by agreement, not longing. Escape dressed as arrangement.

The screen lit up. Message came through - hospital number showing.

Fine condition now, Mr. Whitmore. Tomorrow's talk about when surgery happens - consultant wants that meeting. Let it be known if you’ll be there.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the display, lines smearing together slowly. Then nothing made sense anymore.

High up in that floating office, Julian Kingsley likely had his eyes on someone new by now - another woman hoping too hard. Someone else ready to fall into line.

Yet there was a spark he noticed in her. Toughness that didn’t quit.

Could that have been it? Refusing to bend - was that really defiance? Maybe just pride, something she didn’t have room for anymore.

It started without her understanding. Only one thing made sense: the door now stood open. Beyond it stretched a dark so deep it felt unknown. Yet within that shadow flickered something bright - scary, yes - but strong enough to protect what mattered most.

Footsteps cracked the silence as she left the water behind, each step pulling her toward a decision that pressed like frost into her skin, deeper than wool could reach, sharper than winter’s first breath.