Carrying the Billion-Dollar Baby

Prologue: Ashley's POV The air in the club was so thick with sweat and expensive gin that I could practically taste the bad decisions, and honestly? I was here for it. The bass was thumping so hard I felt it in my teeth, which was great because it meant I didn't have to hear the guy next to me explain his "revolutionary" crypto start-up for the third time. ​I took a massive gulp of my drink, ignoring the fact that the ice was 90% melted. I looked like a million bucks in this dress—sequins, backless, and tight enough to make breathing optional—but my bank account was currently sitting at a cool eleven dollars and forty-two cents. ​I was officially the "Brooke" in "broke." ​When Dad died a couple of years ago, he left us a decent chunk of change. Simone, being the human equivalent of a library, probably put hers into a high-interest savings account or bought a sensible piece of real estate. Me? I treated that inheritance like a glitter cannon. I bought the shoes, I bought the flights, and I definitely bought enough rounds of shots to make every bartender in Manhattan know my middle name. ​It was a blast while it lasted. But apparently, "limitless" funds actually have a limit. Who knew? ​My phone buzzed against my thigh, nearly vibrating off the velvet seat. I pulled it out, squinting through the strobe lights. ​Notification: Bank Transfer from Simone O. - $2,500.00 ​Right under it, a text: “Ashley, this is the last time this month. You’re twenty-four. You can’t keep living like a teenager on an allowance. We need to talk. Come to the house tomorrow morning. 9 AM. Sharp.” ​I winced. Nine AM? That was basically the middle of the night. ​I looked at the transfer. That money was supposed to pay my rent, my electric bill, and maybe buy me a salad that wasn't 80% croutons. But then I looked at the three empty bottles of champagne on the table and the crowd of "friends" waiting for me to keep the vibe going. ​"Everything good, Ash?" one of them shouted, leaning in so close I could smell the Red Bull on his breath. ​"Better than good," I lied, flashing the grin that usually got me out of trouble. ​I felt that familiar, itchy guilt in my chest—the kind that reminded me I was basically a charity case for my sister and her billionaire husband—but I shoved it down. Hard. If I was going to be a failure, I might as well be a failure with a fresh drink in my hand. ​I waved the waiter over, pointing at the most expensive bottle on the menu. Tomorrow Ashley could deal with Simone’s lecture and the crushing reality of being a broke loser. Tonight Ashley was still the girl who never wanted the sun to come up. ** The sunlight was hitting the massive glass front of the Orwell manor like a personal attack. I stood there in my oversized sunglasses, clutching my head and praying my brain wouldn't leak out of my ears. It was noon. I was three hours late, my hair was 40% dry shampoo, and I smelled faintly of the tequila shots I’d let some guy named Chad buy me at 4:00 AM. ​I didn’t even have to ring the bell; the massive oak doors swung open like the house was exhaling in annoyance. ​And there he was. Nash Logan Orwell. The man, the myth, the human iceberg. ​He was standing in the foyer, looking like he’d just stepped out of a luxury watch ad—crisp white shirt, pants that probably cost more than my apartment, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust on his face. He didn't even say hello. He just checked his watch and let out a long, theatrical sigh. ​"Twelve o'clock," Nash murmured, loud enough for it to ring through the marble hall. "At least she’s consistent. A total pain in the ass and perfectly incapable of basic adult functions." ​"Love you too, Nash," I muttered, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper. I pushed past him, catching that scent of expensive cologne and "I own the world" energy. "Where’s my sister? Or are you just here to be the welcoming committee from hell?" ​He didn't answer, just did that thing where he looks at me like I’m a piece of gum he found on the bottom of his shoe. I ignored him and headed for the sunroom, where Simone was sitting with a cup of tea that looked as calm and perfect as she did. ​"You’re late, Ash," Simone said, but she didn't sound mad. She sounded... weirdly intense. ​"Traffic was a nightmare," I lied, collapsing onto a chair that probably cost five figures. "So, what’s the big 'talk'? Am I being cut off? Should I start looking for a cardboard box with good natural light?" ​Simone set her tea down with a soft clink. She didn't look at Nash, who was hovering in the doorway like a brooding statue. She looked straight at me. ​"I have an offer, Ashley. One that solves everything. Your debts, your rent, your future—all of it." ​I leaned forward, my hangover momentarily forgotten. "Okay, I'm listening. Is it a kidney? Because I've got two and I only really need one for the lifestyle I'm living." ​"I want you to be our surrogate," she said, her voice completely flat. "Carry a baby for us. Stay here, under our roof, where I can make sure you’re taken care of." ​I blinked. "You want me to be a... human incubator? Simone, I can barely remember to feed myself." ​She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a small, rectangular slip of paper. She slid it across the marble table toward me. It was a check. But the space for the amount was a long, hauntingly white blank line. ​"Carry the baby to term," Simone whispered, her eyes locking onto mine with a desperation I didn't understand. "And when you give birth, you write whatever number you want on that line. Anything. You’ll never have to ask me for a bank transfer again. You’ll be free, Ash. Truly free." ​I looked at the blank check, then at Nash, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet. A blank check. No more begging for rent. No more "eleven dollars and forty-two cents." ​I should have asked why she was being so desperate. I should have wondered why Nash looked so tense. But all I saw was the exit ramp from my disaster of a life. ​"Nine months," I said, my voice shaking just a little. "And then I’m rich?" ​"And then you're free," Simone promised. I stared at that tiny slip of paper. A blank check. It was like looking at a golden ticket out of my trash fire of a life. I could almost hear the sound of a tropical ocean and the "ding" of a bank account that didn't have a negative sign in front of it. ​"Just to be clear," I said, my voice sounding a little more croaky than I wanted. "We haven't actually... started the engine yet, right? No doctors? No needles?" ​Simone shook her head, her perfect ponytail not even moving. "Not yet. We need your consent first. We’ve already scouted the best fertility clinic in the city. Once you say yes, we schedule the IVF. It’s a process, Ashley. Hormones, appointments, the transfer... but we’ll be with you every step of the way." ​I looked over at Nash. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’d been forced to watch a documentary on a topic he hated. ​"You’re okay with this?" I asked him. "With me being the one?" ​Nash’s eyes flicked to mine—cold, sharp, and judging me for the smudge of glitter still stuck to my cheek from last night. "It was Simone’s idea," he said, his voice like dry ice. "She thinks your... vibrant health is an asset. Personally, I think putting a billion-dollar legacy in the hands of someone who can't find her own shoes in the morning is a massive gamble. But Simone gets what she wants." ​I rolled my eyes so hard it actually made my headache worse. "Nice to meet you too, Sunshine." ​I turned back to my sister. The desperation in her eyes was weird, honestly. She was usually so "let's discuss this over brunch," but right now, she looked like she was drowning and I was the only life jacket in sight. I didn't get it. They were rich, they were young, they could have hired some professional surrogate who didn't come with baggage and a hangover. ​But then I looked at the blank line on that check again. ​I was tired of being the "messy" one. I was tired of the pity banks and the "we need to talk" texts. If nine months of being a human greenhouse for the Orwell heir meant I never had to answer to anyone ever again, I’d be a fool to say no. ​"Fine," I said, reaching out and sliding the check toward me. I felt Nash’s gaze burn into the top of my head, probably wishing he could just delete me from the family tree. "I’m in. When do we go to the clinic?" ​Simone finally breathed out, a smile breaking across her face that looked almost... relieved? "Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. And Ashley?" ​"Yeah?" ​"No drinking tonight. From this moment on, your body belongs to our billion-dollar baby." ​I looked at the check, then at Nash’s disgusted face, and sighed. "Goodbye, tequila. Hello, billionaire baby."