The Billionaire's Surrogate

CHAPTER FIVE: Something Like Warmth

— Liam —

Control.

That’s all I’ve ever known. All I’ve ever valued.

Every dollar I’ve made, every acquisition, every calculated move within the Ashford empire it all came down to maintaining control. Because the moment you lose it, you lose everything.

That’s what my father taught me.

Not in words, of course. He wasn’t the type.

He taught by example. By silence. By the way he looked at me like a spreadsheet. By the way he erased my mother’s name from the company’s charitable foundation the week after her funeral.

She was too soft, he said.

Softness was a flaw.

And I swore I’d never let that flaw ruin me.

So when I decided to have a child an heir I approached it like everything else: clean. Quiet. Transactional. I didn’t want a marriage, a scandal, or emotions.

Just DNA. Legacy. A name to pass down.

And then Tessa Monroe walked into my office, and my entire plan started to bleed at the edges.

I wasn’t prepared for her.

Not for her sarcasm, her stubbornness, or the way she looked me straight in the eye like she wasn’t afraid of my bank account or last name.

She was sharp. Real. Messy in a way that made me ache.

And the day I saw her painting in the sunroom the storm, the skyline, the silhouette with the outstretched hand something in me cracked.

Because I knew that image.

I’d seen it before.

In the mirror. Every night. Every year since my mother died.

That feeling of reaching for something that was already gone.

I wanted to walk away.

To remind myself that she was temporary. The carrier. The vessel.

But every time I looked at her, that voice inside me the one that sounded suspiciously like my mother whispered, she’s not just the surrogate anymore.

After Charlotte came to the penthouse and spat her poison, I realized just how badly I’d miscalculated.

Bringing Tessa into this world my world was like handing her over to wolves.

But she didn’t flinch.

She held her head up high in front of my stepmother. In front of the board. In front of the world.

And it was at that moment I knew something dangerous:

I respected her.

Not just admired her. Not just wanted her.

Respected her.

And that’s what made her even more dangerous.

Because I don’t fall for people I respect.

I don’t fall for anyone.

That’s the rule.

And Tessa Monroe is the exception that’s about to ruin me.

It started with the tea.

She couldn’t sleep. Neither could I.

We sat in silence with chamomile between us, the storm outside echoing the one in my chest.

She told me about a name.

Ezra.

And it hit me harder than I expected.

I could picture him dark-haired, stubborn, laughing like she said. A son. A legacy. But not just mine anymore. Ours.

And I hated how much I wanted that.

With her.

The moment she painted again, I knew I was already too deep.

She didn’t show it to me.

She didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just the brush strokes or the colors.

It was what she gave away without realizing it.

Pain. Hope. Strength.

She painted like someone with nothing left to hide.

And for someone like me who’s spent his life hiding watching her made me feel both exposed and safe.

Safe. That’s a word I never thought I’d associate with anyone again.

The kind of safety you feel when you finally take your hands off the wheel and trust someone else not to crash the car.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

That night on the terrace, I thought she was going to kiss me.

Or maybe I was going to kiss her.

I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Because if I crossed that line, there would be no going back.

And despite everything, part of me still believed I could protect her by keeping my distance.

By pretending this wasn’t already personal.

By pretending I hadn’t been lying to myself since the day she walked into that boardroom in torn jeans and fire in her eyes.

When I left the paint supplies by her easel, I didn’t expect a thank you.

I just wanted her to keep painting.

I needed her to.

Because watching her create something out of pain made me believe just for a second that maybe I could, too.

Maybe I wasn’t just capable of building empires and writing contracts.

Maybe I could build something human.

Something lasting.

Then the fundraiser came.

I should’ve canceled it.

But if I didn’t show Tessa to the board, rumors would swallow us both.

So I invited her.

And when she stepped out in that green silk dress, all soft curves and quiet fire, my brain stopped working.

She looked like power and peace wrapped into one.

Beautiful wasn’t the right word.

She looked like freedom.

And I knew I couldn’t keep pretending.

When Charlotte called her “the guest,” something in me snapped.

She wasn’t a guest.

She was carrying my child.

She was sleeping under my roof.

She had a painting on my wall that said more about me than any word I’d ever spoken.

She wasn’t a guest.

She was home.

And I called her my partner before I could stop myself.

The look she gave me half shock, half heat nearly undid me.

But I didn’t take it back.

I couldn’t.

Because in that moment, it felt truer than anything I’d ever said.

After the fundraiser, I locked myself in my study and stared at the painting again.

The storm. The skyline. The silhouette.

I knew then: I was the storm.

She was the one standing in it.

And somehow, she wasn’t running.

She was reaching.

For me.

I don’t know when I’ll tell her.

That I’m scared. That I’m falling. That I haven’t slept properly in weeks because I keep imagining what it would be like to wake up with her next to me.

But I will.

Soon.

Because this isn’t a transaction anymore.

It never was.

It’s something messier.

Something warmer.

Something terrifying.

Something like love.