Carrying the Billion-Dollar Baby

Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Ashley's POV

The first morning at the Orwell manor didn't start with a bird chirping or a gentle alarm. It started with the sound of a heavy door clicking open and the unmistakable scent of sandalwood and cold, hard authority.

​I groaned, pulling a silk pillow over my head. My brain felt like it had been run through a blender, a parting gift from my final "farewell to freedom" bender. "Go away," I croaked. "The museum doesn't open until noon."

​"It’s 6:00 AM, Ashley. Get up."

​I bolted upright, the silk sheets sliding down. Nash was standing at the foot of my bed. He wasn't even looking at me; he was looking at his watch, his face as expressive as a granite slab. He was already in a suit, looking like he’d been awake for three days and had enjoyed every second of it.

​"Six?" I shrieked, my voice cracking. "Is there a fire? Is the stock market crashing? Why are you in my room?"

​"The hormone protocol," he said, stepping toward the nightstand. He picked up the leather-bound folder—my new Bible—and flipped it open. "First injection is at 0615. High protein breakfast at 0645. Blood pressure check at 0700. I told you, I’m not leaving this to your 'vibe.'"

​"My 'vibe' is currently 'murderous,'" I snapped, pushing my messy blonde hair out of my face. I looked at the tray he’d brought in. It wasn't just a syringe. There were vials, alcohol wipes, and a glass of green sludge that smelled like mown grass and regret.

​"Drink the smoothie," he commanded.

​"It looks like it came out of a swamp, Nash."

​"It’s a specialized blend of folic acid, iron, and antioxidants. Drink it, or I’ll have the staff hold you down and pour it in."

​He wasn't joking. I could see it in those dark, intense eyes. Nash Logan Orwell didn't do jokes. He did results. I grabbed the glass and chugged it, gagging as the thick, leafy liquid hit my throat. I slammed the glass back down. "There. Happy? Now get out so I can change into something that isn't a tattered oversized t-shirt."

​"The injection has to be administered in the abdomen," he said, completely ignoring my request. He was already snapping on a pair of latex gloves. The sound—that sharp thwack—made my stomach do a nervous flip. "Lay back."

​I froze. "Wait, you're doing it? Where’s the nurse? Where’s Simone?"

​"Simone is sleeping. She’s had a... difficult night. And the nurse is expensive to keep on-site 24/7 when I am perfectly capable of following a medical diagram." He stepped closer, the syringe in his hand. "Lay. Back."

​I lay back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely out of my element. This wasn't a club. This wasn't a guy I could charm or a sister I could guilt-trip. This was a man who saw me as an obstacle between him and the only thing he wanted: an heir.

​He pulled the hem of my shirt up just enough to expose my stomach. His fingers were cold as he swiped the alcohol pad across my skin. I held my breath, bracing for the sting, but I found myself looking at him instead. Up close, Nash was... a lot. He had this tiny scar right near his eyebrow, and his eyelashes were unfairly long for a man who spent his life being a jerk.

​"Don't tense up," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, vibrato-heavy tone that actually made me shiver. "It’ll hurt more if you fight it."

​Pinch. Sting. Done.

​"That’s it?" I asked, exhaling.

​"That’s the first of many." He stepped back, disposing of the needle with clinical precision. He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for the first time, the disgust was gone. It was replaced by something else—something heavier. "You’re doing a big thing, Ashley. Don't make me regret trusting you with it."

​"I'm doing it for the check, Nash. Don't get all sentimental on me."

​His face hardened instantly. The "Iceberg" was back. "Of course. How could I forget? Everything has a price for you."

​He turned on his heel and marched out, leaving me alone in the massive, silent room.

​The next few days were a blur of needles, kale, and the kind of boredom that makes you want to scream. I was a prisoner in a golden cage. I wasn't allowed to leave the grounds without an escort. I wasn't allowed to have "unvetted" visitors. My phone, which used to buzz every five seconds with invites to parties, was now mostly silent, except for the occasional "Where you at?" from people who didn't actually care where I was.

​Simone was around, but she was... different. She spent most of her time in her study or in bed. She looked pale, her movements slow and deliberate. When we talked, it was always about the baby.

​"I’ve picked out the wallpaper for the nursery," she told me one afternoon while we sat on the terrace. "Soft greys and creams. Very gender-neutral. Nash wants it to feel 'timeless.'"

​"Maybe put a little color in there?" I suggested, picking at a fruit bowl. "Kids like color, Sim. They don't want to grow up in a cloud."

​Simone smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "This child is going to have everything, Ashley. A cloud is the least of it."

​"And what about you?" I asked, looking at her closely. "You look tired. Are you okay? Is the stress getting to you?"

​She stiffened, her hand fluttering to her throat. "I’m fine. Just... a little under the weather. The hormones from my own procedures took a toll. I just need to see you pregnant, Ash. I need to know it’s real."

​The intensity in her voice gave me the creeps. It was like she was holding onto life by a thread, and I was the only thing anchoring her down.

​That night, I couldn't sleep. The manor felt too big, the shadows too long. I wandered down to the kitchen, hoping to find something—anything—that wasn't a protein shake.

​The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the light of the open refrigerator. A figure was standing there, silhouetted against the cold glow.

​"Hungry?"

​I jumped, nearly knocking over a vase of lilies. It was Nash. He was standing there in a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and nothing else. No suit. No crisp white shirt. Just a lot of muscle, a few tattoos I didn't expect, and a glass of water.

​"I... I was looking for a snack," I stammered, my eyes betraying me by wandering over the lines of his chest. "Does the Orwell regime allow midnight crackers?"

​He didn't snap at me. He didn't even sigh. He just reached into a hidden cabinet and pulled out a box of artisanal sea-salt crackers, sliding them across the marble island. "One serving. And don't tell the nutritionist."

​"My lips are sealed," I said, grabbing a cracker. I hopped onto a stool, feeling a weird shift in the air. "You're up late. Making more spreadsheets?"

​"Thinking," he said, leaning his back against the counter. He looked tired. Not the 'I’ve been working' tired, but the 'I’m carrying the world' tired. "Simone is... she’s obsessed with this, Ashley. If this fails, I don't know if she’ll survive it."

​"She’s stronger than she looks," I said, though I wasn't sure I believed it.

​"You don't see what I see," he muttered. After saying those words, he left.

The kitchen suddenly felt ten degrees colder the moment Nash disappeared down the hall. I sat there, clutching a single sea-salt cracker, staring at the empty doorway. “You don’t see what I see.” What kind of cryptic, billionaire-voodoo bullshit was that?

​I shook it off. I didn’t have the brain capacity for mysteries. I had enough problems—mostly involving the fact that my stomach was becoming a literal pincushion.

​The next two weeks were the longest of my life. My routine was a nightmare designed by a sadist: wake up at dawn, drink the "swamp juice," get stabbed by Nash, eat a breakfast that tasted like cardboard, and stare at the walls. Nash remained a ghost, appearing only when it was time for my injections. He was professional, cold, and never mentioned our midnight kitchen chat again. It was like it never happened.

​Finally, the day arrived. The end of the protocol.

​I was sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting. For once, I was actually awake before the door opened. When it did, Nash walked in, but he wasn't alone. Simone followed him, looking thinner than she had just a few days ago, her eyes bright with a feverish kind of excitement.

​"Today is the day," Simone whispered, her voice trembling. She came over and sat next to me, taking my hand. Her fingers were like ice. "The doctor says your lining is perfect. The embryos are ready."

​I looked at Nash. He was standing by the window, his back to us, looking out at the sprawling estate. He looked tense—like a bowstring about to snap.

​"Last one, Ash," he said, turning around. He held up the final syringe.

​I hiked up my shirt without even being asked. I was used to it now. The pinch, the sting, the weirdly intimate silence that fell between us for those few seconds. But this time, when he finished, he didn't step away immediately. He looked down at my stomach, his hand lingering just an inch above my skin.

​"Everything changes after today," he muttered, almost too low for me to hear.

​"No turning back now," I replied, trying to sound brave, though my heart was doing a drum solo against my ribs.

​We left for the clinic an hour later. The drive was a complete 180 from our first trip. Nobody was talking. No witty barbs from me, no sighs from Nash. Even Simone was silent, clutching a small crystal rosary in her lap.

​The clinic felt even more sterile than before. They moved me into a procedure room, the kind with the big stirrups and the bright, unforgiving lights. I felt like a car being taken in for an engine swap.

​"Just relax, Ashley," the doctor said, his voice a smooth, practiced drone. "We’ve selected the strongest embryo. This is the moment."

​I looked over at the doorway. Simone was standing there, her face pressed against the glass of the observation window. And next to her was Nash. He wasn't looking at the monitor. He was looking straight at me.

​For a second, the sarcasm died. The "blank check" felt miles away. I realized that within minutes, I wouldn't just be Ashley Martin, the party girl who couldn't pay her rent. I would be the vessel for a life that wasn't mine.

​"Transfer beginning," the doctor announced.

​I closed my eyes and held my breath. I felt a weird pressure, a slight cramp, and then... silence.

​"Done," the doctor said, sounding way too casual for someone who had just dropped a billion dollars into my uterus. "Now, the real work begins. Total bed rest for forty-eight hours. If you so much as sneeze too hard, I want to hear about it."

​They wheeled me out to the recovery area where Simone was waiting. She burst into tears the second she saw me, throwing her arms around my neck. "Thank you, Ash. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

​"Hey, don't thank me yet," I croaked, feeling a lump in my throat. "Let's see if the little stowaway decides to stay first."

​Nash stepped up behind her. He didn't hug me. He didn't cry. He just placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder for a split second. "The car is waiting. Let's get you home."