The Billionaire's Surrogate

– Tessa – The letter was thin. White envelope. No frills. No kindness. Just two words stamped across the front in red ink: FINAL NOTICE. I stood in my tiny studio apartment, the weight of those two words crushing down on my chest harder than the cold New York air seeping through the windows. My hands, speckled with dried paint, trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper. It wasn’t a surprise. Still, the knot in my stomach clenched tighter as I read the notice again past due rent. Thirty days or I’d be out. Not that it mattered. I was already drowning in bills I couldn't pay, medical expenses stacking up like bricks on my back. Jacob needed therapy. My mom’s prescriptions were running low. And my art? My beautiful, beloved art? It hasn’t sold in months. I sank into the wobbly chair by the window, the cracked leather groaning beneath me, and stared blankly at the canvas I had started two weeks ago. A stormy sky. Half-finished. Like everything else in my life. I didn’t even hear the knock at the door until it came again louder this time. I forced myself up, brushing my fingers through my tangled curls, and opened it. Nora stood there, her cheeks flushed from the cold, black curls tucked into a knit hat, and a fire in her eyes like she’d just committed a crime or fallen in love maybe both. “Hey,” I mumbled. “Hey yourself.” She stepped in, immediately wrinkling her nose at the stale air. “Tess, seriously? When’s the last time you opened a window in here?” “The window doesn’t open. It’s painted shut. Like my future.” “God, you’re dramatic.” I smiled weakly. It didn’t reach my eyes. She saw it. Of course she did. “I brought something,” she said, digging through her bag. “Promise me you won’t throw it out until you at least hear me out.” I narrowed my eyes. “If it’s another modeling gig in a weird warehouse” “It’s not. It’s legit.” She handed me a glossy brochure. I stared down at it, blinking at the headline in silver foil: Elite Surrogacy Solutions. Discreet. Legal. Life-Changing. My heart dropped. “Nora…” I whispered. “Just look at it. Please. It’s not what you think. They’re not asking you to sleep with anyone. It’s a private contract. IVF. Full medical coverage. They pay you. A lot.” I swallowed. “I’m not selling my body.” “You’re not. You’re giving someone a chance to have a family.” She hesitated. “And you're giving yourself a way out.” I didn’t respond. I couldn't. She squeezed my hand and left the brochure on my desk. "Just think about it," she said softly. “Before everything crumbles.” I read the brochure at 2:00 a.m., curled up under three layers of blankets, because the heater had finally given up. I Googled the agency. I read testimonials. Reviews. I searched for red flags and lawsuits and horror stories but there were none. Private. Legal. Safe. Confidential. And the payment? Seven figures. Enough to pay off the debt. Enough to get Jacob the care he deserved. Enough to start over. My fingers trembled as I typed out a message. I’m interested. What are the next steps? Two weeks later, I stood in a marble-floored private waiting room, so clean and elegant I felt like a smudge just being there. My coat was two winters old and fraying at the sleeves. My boots scuffed. My heart is thundering. The woman from the agency Genevieve, with sleek blonde hair and icy lipstick smiled as she returned with a folder. “He wants to meet you before the final signing,” she said. “He?” Genevieve nodded. “The intended father. He’s very particular. I want to ensure... compatibility.” I swallowed hard. “Okay. Fine. When?” The door opened. “Now.” He stepped into the room like he owned every square inch of it and maybe he did. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-shaven with dark, close-cut hair. Cold gray eyes that seemed to see everything and give nothing back. A black designer coat framed his body like armor. His hands were gloved. Polished. Controlled. I had expected someone older and fatter. Maybe even kind. But Liam Ashford looked like he belonged in Forbes, not in a surrogacy consultation. “Miss Monroe,” he said, voice clipped and low. “Yes.” My throat felt dry. “That’s me.” He didn’t sit. He didn’t smile. “I’m told your medical profile is acceptable. No history of hereditary illness. You’re within the ideal age range, non-smoker, no substance abuse history.” His gaze scanned me like a chart. “You understand the terms?” I met his stare. “Do you always talk to women like spreadsheets?” His lips twitched just slightly. “This isn’t personal, Miss Monroe. I need an heir. You need money. Let’s keep it clear.” God, he was insufferable. Cold. Calculating. And yet, under the layers of detachment, I saw it just a flash of something… broken. A flicker in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. He handed me a pen. “If you agree, sign. The contract includes full medical coverage, housing, nutritional allowances, and emotional wellness support. You will not be required to work during the pregnancy. Once the child is born, you relinquish all rights. Payment is delivered in full.” I stared at the papers. “What’s wrong with adoption?” I asked, not even sure why I was pushing. “I don’t want someone else’s blood,” he replied. “I want mine. My name. My legacy.” So that was it. Legacy. I looked at the line where my name would go. This signature would change my life. Sell my body. Rent my womb. Risk my heart. “I’ll sign,” I said quietly, “but I want something in return.” His brow lifted. “Money is already” “No. I want full coverage for my brother’s therapy. For as long as he needs it.” Silence. Long enough that I thought he’d refuse. Then: “Done.” Three weeks later, the procedure was complete. IVF. Two embryos. One implanted successfully. I was pregnant with Liam Ashford’s child. The first appointment, he came. I didn’t expect him to. I thought he'd send an assistant, or a lawyer, or hell, a robot. But Liam sat across from me in the ultrasound room, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn’t flinch when the heartbeat echoed through the machine. But I saw his jaw clench. Just a little. “It's real,” I whispered. He nodded. “It is.” The second month, he brought prenatal vitamins. Top-shelf brands I couldn’t even pronounce. The third month, he had a private chef deliver meals to my apartment. Fresh. Organic. Balanced. The fourth month, I caught him lingering too long near one of my unfinished canvases. “You painted this?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s... good.” I raised a brow. “That sounded painful for you to admit.” “I’m not in the habit of complimenting people.” “Or smiling. Or breathing air like the rest of us.” His mouth twitched again. A shadow of something human. By the fifth month, we weren’t strangers anymore. We talked. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for hours. I asked him once if he believed in love. He answered like it was a stupid question. “No. Love is the lie people tell when they want something.” I wanted to hate him for that. But I didn’t. Because beneath the arrogance, I saw the loneliness. One night, he drove me home from a late scan. I told him about my father’s debts. About losing scholarships. About how I used to dream of hanging my art in galleries across Europe. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t condescend. When I trailed off in embarrassment, he said, quietly, “My mother was a painter.” I turned to him. “Really?” He nodded, eyes still on the road. “She gave it up to marry my father. Ashford doesn’t believe in dreams. Just dynasties.” I watched his reflection in the window. And for the first time, I saw not a billionaire. But a boy who’d never been allowed to hope. By the sixth month, I stopped pretending this was just business. But I also knew this: Liam Ashford had walls around his heart, built high and brutal. And I was just a girl carrying his child. Nothing more. Nothing less. And that was supposed to be enough. Right?