The Billionaire's Surrogate

CHAPTER TWO: Contracts and Cracks

— Tessa’s POV —

I used to think pregnancy would feel like magic.

Movies painted it as this glowy, blissful state filled with fluttering kicks and maternal smiles and people offering their subway seats with warm congratulations.

Turns out, pregnancy feels a lot like nausea, bloating, and a growing sense that your body no longer belongs to you.

Especially when the child growing inside you isn’t yours.

Technically, he was Liam’s. Biologically. Legally. Emotionally? That part was still gray.

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, one hand on the swell of my stomach. Six months along and I was already walking like someone’s grandmother. My cheeks looked fuller. My eyes a little softer. I didn’t know if it was hormones or exhaustion or something else entirely.

I pressed a hand to my belly and whispered, “Are you going to be like him?”

No answer, of course.

Just a tiny nudge from the inside like he was kicking me for asking.

Later that afternoon, Liam sent a driver.

Not just any driver. A black SUV with tinted windows, leather seats, and a man named Carl who wore gloves even when he didn’t need to.

“Mr. Ashford requested you join him at the penthouse,” Carl said, his tone sharp and professional.

My heart jumped.

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

Of course he didn’t.

Liam rarely said more than necessary.

The Ashford Penthouse wasn’t just a home. It was a goddamn glass temple overlooking Central Park. The kind of place you saw on magazine covers. Floor-to-ceiling windows. White marble floors that clicked beneath my cheap boots. Art on every wall real art, by names I’d studied in college and could never afford to see in person.

I felt out of place from the second I stepped in.

He met me in the living room.

Not in a suit for once, but in a charcoal sweater and slacks. Relaxed, but still crisp. Still him.

“Tessa.” His voice was calm, unreadable. “Thanks for coming.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I said, folding my arms.

His eyes flicked to my belly, then back up.

“You’re doing well.”

“Baby’s fine. I’m fine. You can tell your lawyers everything’s on track.”

“That’s not why I asked you here.”

I blinked. “No?”

He gestured to the bar. “Would you like something?”

“I’d like to know what the hell this is about.”

He exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed amused, maybe.

Then he motioned toward the glass doors leading to the terrace.

“Come outside.”

I hesitated. Then followed.

The terrace overlooked the city in full sunset.Manhattan dipped in gold and fading blue. The sky painted itself like one of my old canvases, and for a moment, I forgot to be annoyed.

“Do you miss painting?” he asked suddenly, standing beside me, hands in his pockets.

I didn’t answer right away.

“Every day,” I said finally. “It’s like… having something to say, but no voice.”

He was quiet.

Then: “Why did you stop?”

I turned toward him. “You know why.”

He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes on the horizon. “Tell me anyway.”

I almost didn’t. But something about his voice soft, low, like he actually cared—chipped away at my silence.

“I had a scholarship. I was going to finish school, open a studio. Then my dad died. Left us with nothing but bills and his half-built lies. Mom fell apart. Jacob got sick. And suddenly, art felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.”

Liam nodded once, slowly.

“I lost my mother at fifteen,” he said. “She was the only softness in our house. When she died, everything changed. My father became... stricter. Less forgiving.”

“Is that why you’re like this?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

“Like what?”

“Emotionally constipated. Cold. Closed off.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“Maybe.”

Silence stretched between us. Not awkward, just full.

Then, without looking at me, he said, “I want you to move in.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“Here. Into the penthouse. It’s safer. Easier for monitoring. More comfortable.”

“You want me to live with you?”

“Temporarily,” he clarified. “Until the birth.”

I laughed, disbelieving. “This isn’t a rom-com, Liam. I’m not moving in with the man who hired my womb.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s practical. You’ll have access to private medical staff, a chef, twenty-four-hour security”

“It’s creepy. That’s what it is.”

“Tessa”

“No.” I shook my head. “You don’t get to control where I live, what I eat, or how I breathe just because you paid for this pregnancy.”

“I’m not trying to control you.”

“Aren’t you?” My voice cracked. “That’s what this has always been. You’re so desperate to make sure everything stays perfect that you’re not even seeing me. I’m not a machine, Liam.”

His jaw tightened. I thought he might snap back. Instead, he surprised me.

“You’re right.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You’re right,” he said again. “I’ve treated this like a contract. Like a transaction. But this” he motioned toward my belly “isn’t just a deal anymore.”

My throat tightened.

“You’re carrying my child,” he said quietly. “And whether I like it or not… you matter.”

I looked at him really looked and saw it.

Not the billionaire.

Not the businessman.

But the broken boy who’d lost his mother. The man who wanted an heir so badly, he forgot what it meant to be human in the process.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My chest was too full of emotion I didn’t understand.

He didn’t push.

He just whispered, “Think about it. The offer stands.”

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of my apartment as the wind howled outside and the heater wheezed like an old man dying.

I thought about the penthouse.

The warmth. The quiet. The security.

I thought about the child growing inside me.

And I thought about Liam Ashford complex, cold, careful Liam and the way his voice had cracked just slightly when he said you matter.

I moved in the next day.

It wasn’t what I expected.

Yes, it was luxurious. Yes, there were more rooms than I could count and a chef who knew how to make pregnancy-safe chocolate mousse that made me cry on the first bite.

But Liam… surprised me.

He gave me space. A wing of the penthouse to myself. He never entered without knocking. Never demanded updates. Some nights we didn’t even see each other.

But when we did when we shared quiet breakfasts or passed each other in the hall it started to feel like something more than convenient.

Like a rhythm.

A fragile peace.

One evening, I caught him in the study.

He didn’t hear me approach. He was staring at a painting one of mine. I’d found the old canvas rolled up in a closet and hung it in the guest lounge without thinking.

Now he was standing in front of it, utterly still.

“That was from my second year at school,” I said softly.

He turned, just slightly. “It’s haunting.”

I raised a brow. “Most people say depressing.”

“Most people aren’t paying attention.”

I stepped closer.

He glanced at me, something unreadable in his gaze.

“You’re talented, Tessa.”

The words meant more than they should have.

“Thank you.”

He hesitated. Then said, “If you wanted... I could help fund a studio. After the baby. If that’s something you still want.”

I stared at him.

“You’d do that?”

“I’ve done worse for people I cared about less.”

His eyes held mine. Warmth flickered there. Real. Bare.

Dangerous.

I looked away before I could read too much into it.

Two nights later, I had a nightmare.

Blood. Screaming. The baby was gone. I woke up sobbing, my heart racing.

I didn’t think. I just moved down the hall, past the study and knocked on his door.

It opened instantly.

He must’ve heard me.

Without a word, Liam pulled me into his arms.

And I let him.

For the first time, I didn’t pull away. I let my head rest on his chest. Let his warmth wrap around me like safety. Like comfort. Like something I wasn’t supposed to crave.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“This is the place,” he said. “Always.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t speak again.

We just stood there in the dark.

And something shifted between us.

Something real.

Something terrifying.