THE BILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION

Chapter 4:The Proposition

The ringing of the doorbell jolted me awake. I glanced at my phone — 6:15 a.m. Who would be knocking at our door at this ungodly hour?

Three days since the disastrous meeting with Marcus Ellison. Three days of watching my mother’s quiet desperation as she put family photos into cardboard boxes. Three days of my father’s defeated silence after coming home from the hospital. Three days of distracting my siblings about why we were separating our belongings into “will need” and “can leave behind” piles.

The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time.

Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I crept downstairs, my feet muted against the fraying carpet. I found Carter through the peephole: a tall man in an immaculate suit.

My heart pounded in my chest when I opened the door. "Yes?"

“Ms. Hermes,” he said with rehearsed politeness. “O Mr. Ellison asks that you join him for breakfast at his home. A car is waiting."

I stared at him, convinced I must have misheard. "Excuse me?"

“Mr. Ellison would like to speak with you further about your situation. He says you can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Hope stirred in my chest before suspicion stomped it dead. "At 6:15 in the morning?"

Carter's face did not change. “Mr. Ellison wakes at 5 AM. “This is the only slot he has open today.”

I looked back into the quiet house, weighing my options. Was this a cruel power play or a real opportunity?

"I need to get dressed."

"You have ten minutes."

I rushed upstairs, donning the most professorial ensemble I could gather quickly: a navy pencil skirt and white blouse I had worn to college presentations. I wrote a note to my parents, brushed my hair, and did just enough makeup.

Nine minutes later, I slipped into the back of a shiny black Bentley.

The trip to Manhattan felt surreal. Early morning sunlight glinted off the glass of skyscrapers as we passed through those neighborhoods that had grown wealthier. We finally pulled up in front of a towering limestone building on Fifth Avenue facing Central Park.

Carter guided me through an ornate lobby to a private elevator that required a keycard. “Mr. Ellison has the penthouse,” he said unnecessarily, as we blasted up thirty floors in seconds.

The elevator opened into a foyer of polished marble and tasteful art. Carter directed me through to a beautiful terrace, where I found Marcus Ellison seated at a glass table, sipping coffee and studying documents.

He did not look up at once. "Thank you, Carter. That will be all."

It was only after his assistant left that Ellison noticed me. He wore no suit jacket today — only a stiff white shirt with sleeves rolled above powerfully muscled forearms, and a tie perfectly knotted, considering the hour.

“Ms. Hermes,” he said, meeting my eyes for the first time. "Please, join me." He motioned toward the chair across from him.

I remained standing. "Why am I here, Mr. Ellison?"

A glimmer of amusement touched his face. "Breakfast. Coffee?"

“I did not come here for pleasantries.”

“No, you came because you are desperate to save your family home.” He poured coffee into a fine porcelain cup. "Black, or with cream?"

“Black,” I said on autopilot, then mentally cursed myself for participating in his charade.

"Please, sit." This time, it was not a request but a command.

After some reluctance, I did, admiring the broad view of the expansive green treescape of Central Park spread out before us. “If this is a joke or some f*****g game—”

“I don’t play games, Ms. Hermes. I calculate opportunities." He put away his papers and gave me his full attention. “The offer you made the other day wasn’t the best, but it caught my attention.

My pulse quickened. “Are you rethinking the terms of the loan?”

"Not exactly." He took a sip of his coffee and studied me over the rim. “I have researched you extensively since I met you.”

"Researched me?" I repeated incredulously.

"Kamara Hermes. Twenty-two years old. You graduated from design school last year, at the top of your class. Finalist, Ellison Foundation Fashion Internship Positive endorsements from professors, especially Dr. Scott. She has had no active boyfriends in two years. No criminal history. Excellent credit score although income limited to part-time retail work.”

I felt violated. "You had no right to—"

“I had every right,” he cut in coldly. “The family all owes me a lot of money. Due diligence is the norm.”

A server materialized silently, setting down a plate of fresh fruit and pastries in front of me. I hadn’t even seen another person on the terrace.

“I was especially impressed with your portfolio,” Ellison continued. “Your work has real talent. Rare imagination combined with technical accuracy.’

His unanticipated compliments threw me for a loop. "Thank you," I managed.

“This talent shouldn’t go to waste.” He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Which is why I have my proposal.”

I tensed. "What proposition?"

“I’ll completely forgive your father’s debt. In addition, I’ll make sure you get the Ellison Foundation internship, no matter what the selection committee says.”

My mouth went dry. This was all I needed — financial salvation for my family, and career advancement for myself. Marcus Ellison, however, was not in the giving mood.

"What's the catch?" “Oh?” I said, my voice a near whisper.

His face was inscrutable. "I require an heir."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "Excuse me?"

“My grandmother is urging me to provide an heir to the Ellison fortune. I have no time or desire for marriage, but carrying on my family line is not optional.”

I jumped to my feet, my chair scraping the terrace floor. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you to pay off my father’s debt—

"You misunderstand." His tone was clinical, detached. “I’m not suggesting an intimate relationship. You’re training on data until October 2023. You’d carry my biological child as a surrogate mother.”

My legs threatened to buckle as I sank back into my seat. “You’re asking me to… have your baby?”

"Precisely." He pushed a folder toward me. “This contract specifies that.” You would be made pregnant with my genetic material via artificial insemination. All medical procedures would take place at New York’s premier fertility clinic. “You would see the best specialists in the country for your prenatal care.”

I looked at him, not able to comprehend his words. "You're insane."

“I’m sensible,” he replied. “Your genetic makeup is perfect — intelligence, creativity, physical traits that enhance my own. You have no genetic health problems. The arrangement makes biological sense.”

“Human beings are not breeding stock, Mr. Ellison!”

"Of course not." He appeared honestly shocked by my outburst. “I’m placing fair compensation. Your father's debt is forgiven. Guaranteed admission to the internship program A generous pregnancy stipend. Your very own future salary advance trust fund And, of course, covered all medical expenses.”

The implications churned in my mind. “Well, you expect me to just... give you a baby after I have it for nine months?

“The contract states that you would give up all parental rights at birth.” He talked as if it were a property transfer. “You would owe nothing for the child, and not be responsible for raising it.”

"And if I refuse?"

His expression hardened. “In that case, our original arrangement holds. In four days your family is evicted from your home. You give up your shot at the internship — I can make the first happen as easily as I can make your acceptance happen.”

Rage and disbelief battled inside me. “You’re coercing me into being your broodmare.”

“I like to think of it as providing a mutually beneficial solution to our respective problems.” His voice was calm and reasonable. “You need financial salvation and career advancement. I want an heir without the fuss of marriage. It is a temporary arrangement for you that confers permanent benefits.’

I stood again, this time shoving the contract back toward him. “I have to think this through … this madness.”

“It’s twenty-four hours to make up your mind.” He also stood up, looming above me. “The contract contains a confidentiality provision. Tell no one about it, not your lawyer friend.”

“Twenty-four hours to decide whether to carry a stranger’s child?” I laughed bitterly. "That's hardly fair."

"Fair?" His eyes narrowed. “Was it fair, when your father chose to gamble with my investment?” When he promised returns he had no way of delivering. Life isn't fair, Ms. Hermes. We just deal with its realities as best we can.”

I was hit with a cold realization. “You never planned on taking our house, did you? “This is what you were always planning.”

There was something like respect in his eyes. "You're perceptive. I’ve researched surrogacy options for months. When your father defaulted on his loan, I saw my opening. Your visit to my office merely confirmed what my research had already indicated — you would be a perfect fit.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives like they’re chess pieces.

“I like to think of it as seeing possibilities where some only see challenges. And then he took the contact and put it in a leather portfolio, and handed it to me. “Twenty-four hours, Ms. Hermes. Carter will pick it up tomorrow morning.”

As if on cue, Carter appeared at the entrance to the terrace. “Ms. Hermes, your car is ready.”

With shaking hands, I took the portfolio. “You may be accustomed to getting your way, Mr. Ellison, but some things cannot be bought and sold.”

At last, Marcus Ellison’s mask of dispassion cracked, exposing something nearly vulnerable underneath. “There is a cost to everything, Kamara. The question is: Are you willing to pay it?”

In the elevator down from his ivory tower, I gripped the portfolio of the most outrageous proposal I had ever seen. Nine months of my life, saved with the help of my family. My career dreams were locked away in a vault for nine months, in front of a woman who hated the man whose child I carried.

But then as the car drove off from his building, an awful thought formed in my head: what if that was my only opportunity to save everything that mattered? And worse — what if some tiny, treasonous part of myself was already contemplating saying yes?