The Billionaire's Deadly Surrogate

Cold after Seven

Silk sheets cannot hide the smell of a cage.

The hallway of the west wing went on forever, a dizzying stretch of charcoal walls and identical black doors that swallowed the sound of our footsteps. Damian walked two paces ahead, his shoulders rigid inside his tailored suit. I carried my single canvas duffel bag, the canvas strap digging into my palm like a wire.

"You can slow down," I muttered, shifting the bag to my other shoulder as we rounded another sharp corner. "I am not going to bolt into the walls."

"People who think they can outrun the layout usually end up lost or locked out," Damian said without turning his head. His voice was like dry paper rubbing together. "Keep up."

He stopped in front of door four hundred twelve. A small blue light blinked on the panel above the handle as he pressed his palm against the scanner. With a heavy, mechanical click, the heavy bolt slid back.

"Your quarters," Damian said, stepping aside to let me pass. "Dinner arrives at seven. Do not open this door for anyone except the approved staff."

"And if someone else knocks?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Damian finally looked at me, his eyes cold and devoid of humor. "Then you had better hope your prayers are answered, because nobody here will come looking for your body until morning."

He pulled the door shut before I could think of a sharp reply. The lock engaged instantly, a heavy mechanical thud that echoed in my chest. I turned around to take in the room. It was massive, draped in heavy velvet curtains and dominated by a sprawling mahogany bed. It looked expensive, immaculate, and entirely devoid of life.

Before I could drop my bag, a soft knock rattled the entrance.

I froze, my hand hovering over the strap of my duffel. The knock came again, lighter this time.

"Housekeeping," a hesitant voice whispered through the wood.

I crossed the room and cracked the heavy door open. Two women stood in the hallway, both wearing crisp black dresses with high white collars. The taller one had sharp, nervous eyes and clutched a stack of fresh linens against her chest. The shorter one stared fixedly at the floorboards, her fingers twitching nervously against the fabric of her apron.

"Are you going to stand there all night, or can I come in?" I asked, stepping back to give them space.

The taller woman slipped inside first, her eyes darting around the room as if checking for hidden cameras. "I am Flora," she said quickly, dumping the linens onto the edge of the mattress. "And this is Iris. We are assigned to your maintenance during the first trimester."

Iris kept her head down, walking past me toward the closet with my meager clothes. "We brought the extra blankets. The heating in this wing behaves strangely after dark."

"It feels fine right now," I said, watching the way Flora's hands trembled as she straightened a decorative pillow. "Though your friend Damian acts like he swallowed a poker."

Flora stopped moving. Her shoulders went rigid, and she exchanged a swift, terrified look with Iris. The silence in the room suddenly grew thick and suffocating.

"Damian follows orders," Flora said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You should learn to do the same, Miss Vera. Especially in this room."

I narrowed my eyes, leaning back against the edge of the desk. "Why? Did something happen in here?"

Iris dropped a hanger with a sharp clatter. "Please, don't ask questions. The less you know about what happened to the girl who slept in this bed before you, the longer you will keep drawing breath."

"What girl?" I pressed, stepping closer. "The contract mentions lifestyle adjustments, but nobody talks about the others. Where are they?"

Flora grabbed Iris by the arm, cutting off whatever response the younger maid was about to give. "We are leaving. Just lock your door, do not answer the service intercom after midnight, and for God's sake, keep your windows bolted shut against the wind."

"Wait, talk to me—" I reached out, but Flora pulled away sharply, hauling Iris toward the door.

"Goodnight, Miss Vera," Flora blurted out, her voice pitching high with panic.

The door slammed shut behind them, the automated lock clicking home with terrifying speed. I stood alone in the center of the grand bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. Their terror wasn't manufactured. They were genuinely scared of the walls we were standing inside.

I turned and threw my duffel bag onto the mattress. If there were answers hidden in this room, the maids weren't going to give them up. I started with the dresser, pulling open the heavy cedar drawers. Empty. I checked the nightstands, finding nothing except a sleek digital clock glowing with the harsh blue numbers of six-forty.

Frustrated, I paced toward the corner of the room where the heavy velvet drapes met the wall. A faint draft brushed against my bare ankles, carrying a strange scent like old dust and antiseptic. I shoved the heavy fabric aside to check the window frame. The glass was triple-paned and locked tight, but the wooden baseboard beneath the sill looked slightly uneven.

I knelt down and pressed my palm against the corner of the wood panel. It gave way with a soft creak.

My breath hitched. I slid my fingers into the gap and pulled. The wooden baseboard popped loose from the wall, revealing a dark, shallow cavity cut directly into the drywall. I reached inside my hand brushing against cold plastic.

When I pulled it out, a heavy manila folder slid into my lap, covered in a thin layer of dust.

I flipped the cover open. A passport photo stared back at me, featuring a young woman with dark hair and a bright, defiant smile. Across the top of the attached medical document, a bold red stamp read TERMINATED, followed by a date from eight months ago. Her name was handwritten underneath: Clara Vance.

"So you were real," I whispered to the empty room, turning the page to reveal a series of frantic handwritten notes scribbled in the margins.

The notes didn't talk about morning sickness or prenatal vitamins. They talked about temperature drops. They talked about a heartbeat that didn't match human anatomy. And the final sentence, written in jagged ink at the bottom of the page, made my stomach turn over.

He is not waiting for a baby. He is waiting for a harvest.

Before I could pull out the second page, the digital clock on the bedside table flickered violently. The bright blue numbers stuttered, flashed once, and then died completely, plunging the room into a heavy, shadow-drenched gloom.

A sudden, unnatural drop in room temperature hit me like a physical blow. My breath plumed into a white cloud of condensation in front of my face, the air turning ice-cold in a matter of seconds.

I froze on the floor, the medical chart clutched in my cold fingers, every muscle locking up as heavy, deliberate footsteps stopped right outside my locked door.