Surrogate to the Alpha

Chapter Nine

The ward’s receptionist looked up as I walked in. I didn't usually come by in the morning. Too many people would see me and remind me of the bills I needed to pay. I usually opted for later, after conventional busuness hours were finished.

“Hi, Josephine.”

“Mornin’, Claire. Is my mum up yet?”

“You know she is. She’s been asking for you.”

Of course she had. I didn’t come visit yesterday like I was meant to. Guilt pricked at me immediately — the kind that sits behind your ribs and taps like an impatient woodpecker. I headed down the familiar hallway, sans disguise and without stressing about who might chase me for money. For once, I wasn’t calculating which bill collector might be lurking behind a corner.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the same tired hum I’d grown accustomed to, not giving anyone an indication if it was light or dark outside. I could walk these hospital hallways blindfolded.

Mum was sitting up in bed, knitting something that looked like it might one day become a scarf — or a very confused rectangle. Hard to tell with her. She always insisted it would “look right in the end,” which was a bold claim for someone who routinely dropped stitches like they were hot coals.

“There’s my girl,” she said, smiling. “You look tired.” Her smile faltered.

“I am tired,” I admitted, dropping into the chair beside her. Sometimes I needed a moment where I allowed myself to metaphorically cry in my mother’s arms. I had a feeling she enjoyed these moments of mother‑daughter normalcy as much as I did. “But I do have good news.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you meet someone?”

“What? No. Where did that come from?” I squeaked like a scared mouse.

Mum grinned, and it finally clicked. I missed last night’s visit.

I sighed. “I left the diner late and was too tired. I went straight home and crashed. I told you.”

Mum rolled her eyes like she didn’t believe me, but was secretly hoping I was sneaking off to dates with God knows who.

“I’m running out of time, Jo. Forget grandkids, I’d be happy to see you engaged before I go up to Saint Peter.”

I laughed awkwardly and waved her off. If only she knew…

She set her knitting aside and thankfully didn’t push further with my dating life.

“So? What’s the good news?”

I took her hand — and kept the lie simple this time.

“I talked to Dr. Stavros. He mentioned a new clinical trial he thinks you might qualify for,” I said, keeping my hope and excitement from lacing the statement.

Her eyes widened, a spark of her own hope flickering. “Really?”

“Really.”

She didn’t need to know anything else. She didn’t need to know how I’d paid for the overdue bills. She didn’t need to know what I’d signed up for. She didn’t need to know that my uterus now had a job.

She squeezed my hand. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’ll give it a try.”

And that was it. No digging. No suspicion. Just a tired woman agreeing because she knew I needed her to. Because she trusted me. Because she always had. Because she was still my mother and wanted to see me happy. And nothing would make me happier than her being healthy.

Before heading home, I found Dr. Stavros at the nurses’ station, hunched over a chart like it had personally offended him.

“Doctor,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “Jo… if this is about the instalments…”

“It’s all paid. I’m up to date.” I grinned like the Cheshire cat. I’d gone to the billing department and shown the lady proof of transferring the money to cover all the overdue medical bills. Her reaction had been similar to Dr. Stavros’.

He froze mid‑scribble. Slowly — dramatically, like he was auditioning for a soap opera — he lifted his head.

“Paid?”

“All of it.”

He blinked. “All… of it? In full?”

I dropped the smile. “Yes. Tone down your excitement, will you?”

He stared at me like I’d just told him I’d won the lottery and bought the hospital.

“Josephine,” he said, lowering his voice, “are you selling your organs?”

“Ha! Funny. But no.”

“Are you sure? Because this is the face of someone who has sold at least one kidney.”

Try renting out my uterus, I thought.

He squinted. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“That is not as reassuring as you may think.”

I sighed. “Dr. Stavros, I knew you secretly cared about me. Now can you please just schedule the eligibility tests for the trial?”

He straightened, business mode reactivated. “Yes. Of course. I’ll move your mother to the trial’s list.”

“Thank you.”

He paused, then added, “If you did sell an organ, at least tell me it wasn’t the spleen. People underestimate the spleen.”

“Have a good day, Doctor.”

I walked away before he could figure out just how close his guess was.

I made it to the diner a little late yet fully prepared for another long shift. Soon after I tied my apron on, my mind went numb and I lost myself in work and the busy pace.

The hum of the diner indicated it was already late afternoon. I was balancing three plates on one arm when my phone buzzed in my apron and I promptly ignored it.Table seven needed ketchup.Table three wanted their fries “extra crispy but not burnt.”Table five was arguing about whether water counts as a beverage or a human right.

The place was packed — again — the kind of packed that makes you question whether humans actually deserve food service.

And then I heard it.

“Unbelievable. This is ridiculous.”

I didn’t even have to look. I remembered that voice.

Table nine was back.

Except they weren’t at table nine.They weren’t even in my section.Just two of them this time — the wrist‑grabber and one of his buddies — already complaining loudly to the manager about not getting “their usual table.”

Their usual table.As if this was their private club and not the second time they’d ever stepped foot in here.Meanwhile, the actual table nine was occupied by a couple who were clearly not done eating and clearly not giving up their booth for two grown men throwing a tantrum.

A prickle crawled up my spine.

I pretended not to see wrist‑grabber staring at me and kept moving.

“JO!” my manager barked from behind me.

I swear the man moves like a panther when he wants to. He appeared at my shoulder, made a pointed gesture at his watch, and raised his eyebrows in that don’t‑question‑me way.

He was sending me on my break. Right now.

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I was grateful to be out of wrist‑grabber’s leering line of sight. I had a feeling my manager was thinking the exact same thing.

I ducked into the alley behind the diner — the only place where the smell of grease didn’t follow you — and pulled out my phone.

A new email from the surrogacy agency blinked at me. The email was from a few hours ago.

Reminder: Scheduled Meeting for…

I checked the date, then checked again.

Tomorrow.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”Had I missed something?

I scrolled furiously through my Spam and Junk folders, then my Promotions tab, then my Trash, then — because the universe hates me — my Archive.

And there it was.The original email.Sent days ago.Neatly filed away like I was some organised adult who knew what she was doing.

“Well, s**t,” I muttered. “At least I didn’t miss it.”

I tapped the address and recognised it immediately — the same beige building where I’d had my first interview with Beth.

Tomorrow.

I shoved my phone back into my apron and hurried inside to find someone willing to cover my shift tomorrow.

Because apparently, I was meeting the family whose baby I’d be carrying… in less than twenty‑four hours.

And I was absolutely, completely, cosmically unprepared.

But I vowed to at least wash my hair before the meeting and try to look responsible, balanced and not desperate.