Carrying the Billion-Dollar Baby

Chapter One

Chapter One: Ashley's POV

The drive to the clinic was the quietest I’d ever seen Simone. Usually, she was barking orders into her hands-free or checking her calendar, but today she was just staring out the window of the Bentley, her hands folded so tightly in her lap her knuckles were white.

​Nash was upfront, driving like he was in a race against time, his jaw set in that "I’m doing this but I’m going to be a d**k about it" way. The silence was starting to give me a twitch, so I did what I do best: I opened my mouth.

​"So," I said, kicking the back of the passenger seat where Nash sat. "Big day for the incubator. Do I get a gold star if I don't pass out when they bring out the needles?"

​Nash’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. "Try to act like an adult for forty-five minutes, Ashley. It’s a medical facility, not a nightclub."

​I was about to snap back with something about his personality being a medical emergency, but Simone finally spoke. Her voice was low—the kind of low that makes you actually shut up and listen.

​"We’ve tried three times, Ash."

​I froze. I knew they’d been trying for a kid—it was the whole reason I was currently sitting in a car that smelled like leather and judgment—but I didn't know the numbers.

​"Three pregnancies," Simone continued, her eyes still fixed on the New York skyline blurring past. "And three... failures. The doctors call it an incompetent cervix. My body just... it won't hold. Every time we got our hopes up, every time we picked out a name or looked at a nursery, the floor just dropped out."

​I looked at the back of Nash's head. He didn't move, but I saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel until the leather groaned. Suddenly, the "iceberg" felt a little less cold and a little more like a guy who was just trying not to shatter.

​"We can’t do it again," Simone whispered, finally turning to look at me. Her eyes were glassy, and for a second, the perfect sister facade was gone. "I can't afford another loss, Ash. Mentally, physically... I’m done. This is our last gamble. We’re putting everything into you because you’re healthy. You’re my blood. I trust your body more than I trust my own."

​The weight of it hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't just about a blank check or me being a "human greenhouse." This was their last shot at a life that didn't end in a hospital room with empty arms.

​I looked down at my hands. For the first time in my life, I felt the terrifying pressure of being responsible for something more than just my own rent.

​"Okay," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I get it. No pressure, right?"

​"Just follow the protocol," Nash clipped, though his voice was a fraction softer than before. "The clinic is the best in the world. If you do exactly what they say, this works."

​As the Bentley pulled up to the sleek, sterile-looking building, I realized my "unserious" life was officially over. I was walking into that clinic as a party girl with a hangover, but I was leaving as the keeper of the Orwell legacy.

​And for some reason, the thought of failing them was scarier than the thought of being broke.

The clinic was exactly what you’d expect from a place that charged more for a consultation than I’d made in my entire life. It didn't smell like a hospital; it smelled like expensive candles and "quiet luxury." The walls were that specific shade of "rich-people beige," and the art was probably worth enough to feed a small country for a year.

​Simone led the way, her heels clicking on the marble with military precision. Nash followed behind us, looking like he was walking into a business merger he hated but had to sign anyway.

​"Ashley Martin?" a nurse in scrubs that looked way too stylish for a doctor's office called out.

​I stood up, feeling like a kid being sent to the principal's office. Simone squeezed my arm—hard. "Remember, Ash. Everything the doctor says is law now. No shortcuts."

​"Got it, Sis. Law and order. SVU style," I joked, but the laugh died in my throat when I saw Nash’s face. He looked like he was one "unserious" comment away from vibrating out of his skin.

​We were led into a private room that looked more like a high-end spa. A doctor with a very calm voice and very expensive glasses started talking about things like "follicle counts," "hormonal cycles," and "implantation windows."

​I tried to keep up, but my brain was still stuck on the fact that they were about to literally put a life inside me.

​"Since we are using the intended mother’s frozen embryos," the doctor said, looking at Simone, "the process for Ashley will involve a series of hormone injections to prepare the uterine lining. We want the environment to be perfect."

​I winced. "Injections? As in, needles? Multiple?"

​"Daily," Nash chimed in, speaking for the first time. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "And I’ll be the one overseeing the schedule. Given your history with... punctuality, I’m not leaving the 'perfection' of the environment to chance."

​I turned in my seat to glare at him. "So what, you're going to follow me around with a syringe and a clipboard? Sounds like a great time, Nash. Really romantic."

​"It's not about romance, Ashley," he snapped, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s about a billion-dollar responsibility. If you can't even wake up for a lunch date, how am I supposed to trust you with our child's development?"

​"Nash, stop," Simone said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She looked exhausted. "Ash, he’s just stressed. We both are. This has to work."

​The doctor cleared his throat, sensing the tension was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. "We’ll start the first round of hormones today. Ashley, if you’ll follow the nurse to the procedure room, we’ll get the baseline bloodwork done."

​I stood up, my legs feeling a little like jelly. I looked at Simone, who gave me a shaky nod, and then at Nash. He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was staring at a framed sonogram on the wall—someone else’s success story—and for a split second, I saw the cracks in his armor. He didn't just want a legacy. He was desperate for a family.

​As the nurse led me away, I realized the blank check in my purse suddenly felt very, very heavy. I wasn't just carrying a baby. I was carrying the only thing keeping this couple from falling apart.

​And I wasn't sure if I was strong enough to hold that weight.

The nurse led me into a tiny room that looked like it belonged on a spaceship. Everything was white, stainless steel, and terrifyingly clean. I hopped up onto the exam table, my sequins feeling incredibly out of place against the crinkly medical paper.

​"Just a quick blood draw, Ashley," the nurse said, her voice so soothing it was actually annoying.

​I hated needles. Like, really hated them. I looked away, staring at a smudge on the wall, and tried to think about that blank check. Think of the beach. Think of the designer shoes. Think of never seeing a bank notification again.

​When I finally walked back out to the waiting area, my arm was bandaged and I felt a little lightheaded. Simone and Nash were standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, whispering. Well, Simone was whispering. Nash was just standing there looking like a very expensive, very angry statue.

​"All set?" Simone asked, rushing over to me. She checked the bandage on my arm like I’d just survived a war zone.

​"Yeah, I’m drained," I said, trying to regain my 'cool girl' persona. "Literally. Can we go get a burger now? Or is my body a temple of kale and sadness starting today?"

​"The hormone protocol starts tomorrow," Nash said, stepping toward us. He handed me a thick, leather-bound folder. "Inside is your schedule. Medication times, dietary restrictions, and a list of approved activities. There will be no burgers. There will be no late nights. And there will certainly be no 'random boys' buying you shots."

​I snatched the folder from him. "You really have a spreadsheet for my life now, don't you?"

​"I have a spreadsheet for everything that matters," he countered, his eyes boring into mine. "And right now, your health is the only thing that matters to this family."

​I wanted to tell him to shove his spreadsheet where the sun doesn't shine, but the look on Simone’s face stopped me. She looked like she was holding her breath, waiting for me to fail.

​"I’ll be moving your things into the manor this evening," Simone said, her voice back to that weirdly controlled tone. "Nash thinks it’s better if you’re under our roof where we can... monitor things."

​"Monitor? You mean house arrest?" I barked a laugh, but neither of them was smiling.

​"It’s a suite," Nash said coldly. "With a view, a private bath, and a staff that will ensure you don't 'accidentally' forget your injections. Consider it a nine-month stay at a five-star hotel."

​"A hotel you can't leave," I muttered.

​As we walked out to the Bentley, the sun hit me, and for a second, I felt like the girl I was last night—the one on the velvet banquette with the champagne. But as the car door clicked shut, locking me into the scent of Nash’s expensive cologne and Simone’s heavy silence, I knew that girl was officially dead.

​I was moving into the lion's den. And the lion had a clipboard and a very long list of rules.

The move into the manor felt less like a "welcome home" and more like being processed into a high-security prison. My luggage—three mismatched suitcases held together by hope and designer luggage tags—looked pathetic sitting on the marble floor of the foyer.

​Nash stood at the top of the grand staircase, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching me like I was a biological hazard he’d been forced to house.

​"Your room is the third door on the left," he said, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "I’ve already cleared the fridge of any... toxins. From now on, you eat what the chef prepares. No takeout, no hidden stashes of junk."

​"What, no 'Welcome to the Family' cake?" I shot back, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I thought billionaires were supposed to be good hosts."

​"I'm not your host, Ashley," Nash replied, his gaze chillingly sharp. "I’m the person making sure you don't screw this up. Simone is resting. Don't disturb her."

​He turned and disappeared down the hall before I could even think of a comeback. I stood there in the silence of that massive, cold house, clutching the leather folder of "rules" to my chest.

​I walked up the stairs, my heels clicking like a death march. When I opened the door to my new room, it was beautiful—expensive silk sheets, a view of the city, and a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment. But on the nightstand, sitting right next to a vase of fresh lilies, was the first syringe for tomorrow morning.

​I collapsed onto the bed, the reality finally sinking in. I had the view, I had the luxury, and I had the blank check waiting at the finish line. But as I looked at that needle, I realized for the first time that I was no longer the girl in control of her own life.

​I was officially Orwell property. And nine months was starting to feel like a very, very long time.