THREE BILLION DOLLAR BABIES

Chapter 4: Clinical

The procedure was scheduled for 9 AM on a Friday, and I'd barely slept the night before.

I lay in my narrow bed staring at the ceiling, hands pressed against my flat stomach, trying to prepare myself for what was about to happen. In a few hours, doctors would implant embryos—Victoria Chen's genetic children—into my uterus. I would become pregnant with the babies of a dead woman and the man who hated me.

The thought made my stomach turn.

My phone alarm went off at six. I silenced it and forced myself into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until the tank ran cold. When I looked in the mirror afterward, I barely recognized myself. Dark circles under my eyes, skin pale, hair dripping wet and wild.

"You can do this," I told my reflection. "It's just a medical procedure. You've assisted with hundreds of them."

But I'd never been on this side of it. Never been the patient. Never felt this vulnerable.

I dressed in comfortable clothes—soft leggings, an oversized sweater—and caught the subway to Manhattan. The early morning commute was packed with people heading to work, everyone absorbed in their phones or their coffee, living their normal Friday lives.

Nobody knew I was about to become a surrogate for a billionaire who despised me.

The Manhattan Fertility Institute looked different when you were the patient instead of the researcher. The gleaming lobby felt colder. The cheerful fertility posters on the walls—smiling parents holding newborns—felt mocking.

"Dr. Morgan?" The receptionist smiled with professional warmth. "They're ready for you in prep room three."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The prep room was small and sterile. A hospital gown lay folded on the examination table. I changed mechanically, trying not to think about how exposed I was about to be, how many people would be looking at me, touching me, doing things to my body while I lay there helpless.

A nurse I didn't recognize knocked and entered. "Good morning! I'm Jennifer, I'll be assisting with your procedure today. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Lie.

"Any questions before we begin?"

About a million. "No."

"Great! Dr. Whitmore will be performing the procedure along with our embryologist. Mr. Steele's representative should be arriving soon—"

"His representative?" My heart sank. I'd known Dominic wouldn't come, but having it confirmed still stung in ways it shouldn't.

"Mr. Reynolds. He's here to oversee things on behalf of the client." Jennifer smiled brightly, oblivious to my distress. "We'll get you started on the IV, then move you to the procedure room. Sound good?"

No. Nothing about this was good.

But I nodded and let her insert the IV into my arm. The needle pinched. I watched the clear fluid drip, knowing it contained medications to prepare my body for pregnancy, and felt utterly surreal.

This was really happening.

The procedure room was exactly like the ones I'd worked in a hundred times—surgical lights overhead, stirrups attached to the table, monitors beeping softly. But seeing it from the patient's perspective made everything feel alien and frightening.

Dr. Whitmore entered, already gowned and gloved. "Riley. How are we doing?"

"Ready to get this over with."

He smiled thinly. "It'll be quick. Twenty minutes, then recovery. You'll be pregnant before lunch."

Pregnant. The word settled over me like a blanket I couldn't shake off.

A young woman in scrubs hurried in, carrying a tablet and looking flustered. "Sorry I'm late. I'm Amy, the embryology tech. I'll be handling the embryo transfer today."

I'd never seen her before. The Institute usually used Dr. Chen or Dr. Rodriguez for procedures this important. "Where's Dr. Chen?"

"Called in sick. I'm covering." Amy fumbled with her tablet, nearly dropping it. "First day on embryo transfers actually, but don't worry! I've been trained."

First day. My chest tightened. "Maybe we should reschedule—"

"Everything will be fine," Whitmore said firmly. "Amy is fully qualified. Let's begin."

Before I could protest, the door opened again. Marcus Reynolds walked in, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the required surgical mask and gown.

"Riley," he said with his usual warm smile. "Dominic sends his... well, he sent me. To make sure everything goes smoothly."

"He couldn't be bothered to come himself?"

Marcus's smile faltered. "He's dealing with some things. But he's very invested in this process."

Just not invested enough to face me.

"Can we proceed?" Whitmore asked impatiently.

I lay back on the table, sliding my feet into the stirrups, and stared at the ceiling tiles. Twenty-three. I counted twenty-three tiles above me, focusing on anything except what was happening below.

Amy was making nervous noises, checking and rechecking her tablet. "Okay, so I have the embryos here... Sample A, collected from... wait, this says Sample B..."

My blood ran cold. "Is there a problem?"

"No! No problem. Just... the labeling system is a bit confusing. Give me one second."

One second turned into two minutes of Amy frantically scrolling through her tablet while Whitmore's jaw tightened and Marcus shifted uncomfortably by the door.

"Amy," Whitmore said tightly. "Do you have the correct sample or not?"

"Yes! Definitely. Sample..." She squinted at her screen. "A-17. That's the one."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

But she didn't sound positive. She sounded panicked.

I should have stopped it then. Should have sat up, demanded they verify everything, insisted on rescheduling with more experienced staff.

But I needed the money. The first $10,000 payment had already paid Mom's most urgent medical bills. Backing out now meant returning it, meant watching Mom's health deteriorate, meant my research staying dead.

So I stayed silent while they proceeded.

The procedure itself was uncomfortable but not painful—a catheter inserted, the embryos transferred, instructions to lie still for thirty minutes. Clinical. Impersonal. Mechanical.

I felt like livestock being artificially inseminated. A vessel. An incubator.

Exactly what Dominic had called me.

"All done," Whitmore announced, stripping off his gloves. "The embryos are implanted. Now we wait to see if they take."

Amy was still frowning at her tablet, but she said nothing.

Marcus approached the table, his eyes kind above his mask. "You okay?"

"Fantastic," I said flatly.

"For what it's worth, I think you're brave for doing this."

"I'm not brave. I'm broke. There's a difference."

After they left me alone in recovery, I lay on the narrow bed with my hand on my stomach, wondering what the hell I'd just done.

Somewhere inside me, maybe, were cells dividing. Victoria's genetic children beginning to grow. A family that should have been hers and Dominic's, now gestating in my body because fate was cruel and money could buy almost anything.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Procedure complete. Per contract clause 7.3, you are to remain on bed rest for 24 hours. A car service has been arranged to take you home. Do not contact Mr. Steele directly.

Not even a "thank you." Not even acknowledgment that I'd just let strangers implant embryos in my body for his benefit.

I deleted the text and closed my eyes.

The car service was a black SUV with leather seats that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The driver didn't make small talk, which I appreciated. I pressed my forehead against the cool window and watched Manhattan blur past—all those people living their normal lives, none of them knowing what I'd just agreed to.

Back in my apartment, I crawled into bed fully clothed and tried to sleep.

I couldn't.

I kept thinking about Amy's nervous fumbling. The confusion over the samples. The way she'd squinted at her tablet like she couldn't quite read it.

What if she'd made a mistake?

No. Whitmore had been there. He wouldn't have let anything go wrong.

Except Victoria had died on his watch too, and the medical board had called it an unavoidable complication.

My phone rang. Mom.

"Mija, I got the strangest notification from the hospital. They said my bill was paid in full. Do you know anything about that?"

The first payment. "I got a bonus at work. Wanted to help."

"Riley, you shouldn't—"

"I wanted to, Mama. Please. Let me do this for you."

She was crying. "You're such a good daughter. I don't deserve you."

I was lying to her, carrying a stranger's baby for money, compromising everything I'd ever believed in. But I let her think I was good because it was easier than the truth.

After we hung up, I googled Dominic Steele again. I don't know why. Punishment, maybe.

I found an interview from last week: "Steele Enterprises CEO Dominic Steele was spotted at a charity gala with socialite Vanessa Lockwood. Sources say the former couple may be rekindling their romance."

There was a photo. Dominic in a tuxedo, looking devastating. A gorgeous blonde in a dress that probably cost more than my car. They looked perfect together—same world, same class, same everything.

While I was lying in my crappy apartment, potentially pregnant with his babies, he was out with beautiful women who actually belonged in his life.

I closed my browser and pulled the covers over my head.

Two weeks. In two weeks, I'd take a pregnancy test and know if it worked.

Two weeks until I found out if I was really carrying Victoria Chen's children.

Two weeks until my life changed forever.

I pressed my hands against my stomach and whispered, "I'm sorry. Whatever happens, I'm sorry."

I didn't know yet who I was apologizing to—Victoria's ghost, the potential babies, Dominic, or myself.

Maybe all of us.