THREE BILLION DOLLAR BABIES

Chapter 6: Weeks of Silence

The morning sickness started at week five and hit like a freight train.

I woke up at 3 AM with nausea so intense I barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting. Then again at 6 AM. And 9 AM. And basically every two hours after that.

"Morning sickness" was a lie. This was all-day, all-night, relentless hell.

I showed up to work at the Institute looking like death warmed over, clutching ginger tea that wasn't helping and wearing the same oversized cardigan three days in a row because everything else felt too tight, too wrong, too much.

"You look terrible," Jessica said with her usual lack of filter. "Are you sick?"

"Just a bug." I couldn't tell anyone yet. The NDA was ironclad—discussing the surrogacy with anyone outside my immediate medical team meant immediate contract termination.

"You should go home."

I should. But going home meant lying in my apartment alone, feeling nauseous and miserable, with nothing to distract me from the fact that I was pregnant with triplets—though I didn't know that yet—for a man who couldn't even text me himself.

So I worked. Or tried to. Mostly I spent the day running to the bathroom to throw up, then returning to my lab to stare at petri dishes until the nausea hit again.

Dr. Whitmore cornered me after lunch. "Riley, you're not looking well. Perhaps you should take some time off."

"I'm fine."

"You've been to the restroom six times this morning. That's not fine."

Heat flooded my face. "It's just stress. I'll be better soon."

His expression said he didn't believe me, but he didn't push. "Just remember, your condition could affect your work performance. We have standards to maintain."

My condition. Like pregnancy was a character flaw.

"I understand."

But I didn't understand. I was growing a human—multiple humans, though I didn't know it yet—and my body was staging a full rebellion, and I was supposed to just power through like nothing was happening because heaven forbid I be less than perfectly productive.

The six-week appointment was on a Thursday. I showed up alone, obviously, because Dominic couldn't be bothered and I had no one else to bring.

The waiting room was full of couples—happy, glowing, holding hands, excited about their pregnancies. I sat in the corner with my outdated magazine, trying to disappear.

"Dr. Morgan?" The nurse smiled warmly. "Ready for your first ultrasound?"

No. "Yes."

The exam room was cold. I changed into the paper gown and lay on the table, staring at the ceiling tiles I'd counted during the procedure. Still twenty-three.

Dr. Patel, the OB assigned to me, was kind but efficient. "How are you feeling?"

"Nauseous. Constantly."

"That's normal, especially with—" She paused, looking at my chart. "Right, we haven't confirmed how many yet. Let's take a look."

The ultrasound gel was cold on my stomach. Dr. Patel moved the wand around, eyes on the screen. Her expression shifted—surprise, then something else.

"Is something wrong?" My heart hammered.

"Nothing wrong. Just... unexpected." She turned the screen toward me. "You see these three dark spots? Those are gestational sacs. Riley, you're pregnant with triplets."

The room tilted. "Triplets?"

"Three babies. All developing normally so far. That explains the severe morning sickness—higher hormone levels."

Three. Not one baby. Not even twins. Three.

"That's... that's not possible. They only implanted two embryos."

Dr. Patel frowned. "Sometimes embryos split, creating identical twins. But three separate sacs..." She checked her notes. "According to the records, two embryos were transferred. One must have split, or..." She trailed off, looking confused.

"Or what?"

"Nothing. I'll run some additional tests. But for now, congratulations. Three healthy heartbeats."

Healthy heartbeats. Three lives growing inside me. Three babies I'd have to carry, birth, and give away.

I was going to pass out.

"I know it's overwhelming," Dr. Patel said gently. "Triplet pregnancies are high-risk, so you'll need more frequent monitoring. I'm prescribing something for the nausea—it's safe for multiples. And you'll need to be very careful. Rest more, hydrate constantly, follow all restrictions."

She kept talking but I couldn't hear her. Three babies. How was I supposed to carry three babies?

"The father has been notified?" Dr. Patel asked.

"His representative will be. I don't... we don't communicate directly."

Something like pity crossed her face. "I see. Well, make sure someone is checking on you. Triplet pregnancies can be dangerous. You shouldn't be alone."

But I was alone. That was the whole point.

I waited until I got home to completely fall apart.

Three babies. Three.

I sat on my bathroom floor—my new favorite spot, apparently—and tried to process. This changed everything. Triplets meant higher risk, more complications, longer recovery. It meant three times the attachment I'd have to break. Three times the loss when I handed them over.

My phone rang. Marcus Reynolds.

"Riley? I just got the news from the clinic. Triplets! That's incredible!"

"That's terrifying."

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"I need to know if Dominic knows."

Pause. "I just told him. He's... processing."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's shocked. But he's pleased. This is more than he hoped for."

Of course he was pleased. He was getting three babies instead of one. Three versions of the family he'd lost.

"Riley, he wants to make sure you're being taken care of. The high-risk nature of triplets—"

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I'm growing three humans for a man who won't even text me himself. How fine should I sound?"

Marcus sighed. "He's complicated. What happened with Victoria—it destroyed him. He's not good with emotions. Or people. Or anything that isn't work, honestly."

"Then maybe he shouldn't have hired a surrogate."

"You're right. But you signed the contract. And like it or not, you're in this together now."

Were we? Because it felt like I was very much in this alone.

After Marcus hung up, I checked my email. Sure enough, there was a message from Steele Legal Team:

Dr. Morgan,

We've been notified of the triplet pregnancy. This is excellent news. Your monthly stipend will be increased to $7,500 to reflect the additional physical demands. Please note the attached updated medical protocols for high-risk multiple pregnancy. Compliance is mandatory.

Mr. Steele wishes to express his appreciation for your continued cooperation.

Wishes to express. Couldn't actually express it himself, but wishes to.

I deleted the email.

Week seven was worse. The nausea intensified to the point where I could barely keep anything down. I lost five pounds I didn't have to lose. Work became impossible—I was throwing up in the lab bathroom so frequently that everyone knew something was wrong.

Whitmore called me into his office again.

"Riley, this isn't working. Your performance has deteriorated significantly. I'm going to have to ask you to take a leave of absence."

"You're suspending me?"

"I'm suggesting you focus on your health. Paid leave, of course."

"Of course." Because they didn't want me around, visibly sick, potentially telling people why.

I cleared out my desk that afternoon. Jessica helped, looking concerned.

"Are you pregnant?" she whispered.

I froze. "Why would you think that?"

"The throwing up. The weird food aversions. The way you keep putting your hand on your stomach when you think no one's looking." She smiled. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone. Congratulations."

I wanted to tell her the truth. That I wasn't keeping the babies. That this wasn't a celebration. That I was a walking incubator for a billionaire's grief-fueled reproductive plan.

Instead I just said, "Thanks."

Walking out of the Institute with my box of belongings felt like defeat. My career—everything I'd worked for—on hold because my body was betraying me.

No. Not betrayal. My body was doing exactly what it was supposed to do: grow these babies.

I just wished it didn't feel so much like punishment.

That night, unable to sleep, I did something stupid. I googled Dominic Steele again.

New photos from last week. Him at some tech conference, looking devastating in a navy suit. Him at a restaurant with Marcus and a group of business associates. Him leaving his office building, getting into his black SUV.

In none of the photos did he look like a man about to become a father of triplets. He looked focused, intense, completely absorbed in his work.

While I was home vomiting and losing my job, he was living his normal life like nothing had changed.

Because for him, nothing had. Not yet. These babies were just abstract concepts, genetic material developing in someone else's body.

For me, they were becoming my entire existence.

I put my hand on my stomach, which was just starting to show the tiniest curve. "Your dad is really something," I whispered. "And by something, I mean emotionally unavailable and infuriating."

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—but I recognized the pattern now. Dominic's number, saved but not programmed in my phone.

My heart jumped. Finally. He was reaching out himself.

I opened it.

This is Dominic Steele. Per contract clause 7.3, you are reminded that all communication must go through designated representatives. This number should not be used for direct contact. Any violations will result in contract review.

I stared at the screen.

He'd texted me. Not to check if I was okay. Not to acknowledge the triplets. Not to say anything remotely human.

But to remind me not to contact him.

I typed back before I could stop myself: Don't worry. I have no interest in talking to you either.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Finally: Good. Keep it that way.

I threw my phone across the room.

It hit the wall and clattered to the floor. I didn't care if it broke. I didn't care about anything except the fact that I was carrying three babies for a man who wouldn't even acknowledge my existence.

I curled up on my bed and cried—hormones, exhaustion, loneliness, and the crushing weight of nine months stretching ahead of me.

Alone. I was completely alone in this.

The next morning, I woke to someone knocking on my apartment door. Loudly. Persistently.

I stumbled out of bed, still in yesterday's clothes, and opened it without checking the peephole.

Marcus Reynolds stood there holding bags of takeout, looking concerned.

"You look like hell," he said.

"Good morning to you too."

"I brought breakfast. And lunch. And dinner, actually, because I'm guessing you haven't been eating." He walked past me into my apartment without invitation. "Jesus, this place is tiny."

"It's all I can afford."

"Not for long. With the increased stipend—" He stopped, looking at me. Really looking. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday. Maybe."

"Riley."

"I can't keep anything down!"

Marcus set the food on my counter. "We're going to fix that. Sit."

For the next hour, Marcus Reynolds—billionaire COO, Dominic's best friend—sat in my crappy apartment and made me eat small bites of bland food until I kept something down. He didn't leave until I'd managed half a bagel and some ginger ale.

"Dominic sent you," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Dominic doesn't know I'm here. He thinks you're fine because you keep telling everyone you're fine." Marcus met my eyes. "But you're not fine. And someone needs to check on you."

"Why do you care?"

"Because you're carrying my best friend's children. Because you're going through hell and no one's helping. Because—" He hesitated. "Because if Victoria were here, she'd want someone taking care of you."

The mention of her name hit like a punch.

"She was kind," Marcus continued. "She would have hated how Dominic's treating you. Hell, she'd probably smack him upside the head."

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

"Thank you. For coming."

"I'll check on you again. And Riley? Don't let Dominic's emotional constipation make you think you're alone in this. You're not."

After he left, I ate another half bagel just to spite Dominic's emotional constipation.

It was the first time in days I'd felt remotely human.