Accidentally Chosen as His Surrogate

CAMELLIA The bar smelled like stale beer and burnt citrus, the kind of smell that crawled into your clothes and refused to leave. I wiped the counter for the third time, even though it was already clean, because standing still made my thoughts louder. "Another round," a man slurred, tapping the counter with a stack of crumpled notes. I nodded, took the money, and turned away before he could say something else that reminded me I was twenty-four years old with a degree on my wall and debt choking my neck. The neon lights above the bottles flickered. Red. Blue. Red again. My reflection stared back at me through the glass shelves. Tired eyes. Hair pulled into a messy bun I had stopped caring about halfway through the night. I poured the drinks with steady hands. I had learned how to keep my hands steady even when my life wasn't. "Cam, you good?" Maya asked from the other end of the bar. "I'm fine," I said automatically. That word had lost its meaning years ago. This place was built on forgetting. Forget your boss. Forget your ex. Forget your bills. I wished it worked for me. My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron. I didn't need to check it to know what it was. I felt it in my chest first, the familiar tightness, the quiet panic creeping in. When I finally looked, my stomach dropped anyway. Student Loan Statement Available. I locked the screen without opening it. I already knew the numbers. I could recite them in my sleep. Interest is climbing faster than my paychecks can keep up. Minimum payments that barely scratched the surface. Late fees are waiting patiently for me to slip. I had done everything right. Studied hard. I worked part-time. Took loans because everyone said it was normal, because everyone said it would pay off. Now I was pouring drinks for men who made my monthly payment in one night. "Cam," Maya said again, softer this time. "You sure?" I forced a smile and slid the drinks across the counter. "Just tired." That was true too. I moved behind the counter wiping, pouring, smiling when required, disappearing when I could. My feet burned. My back ached. My head felt like it had been split open and stuffed with noise. "Two tequila shots." I reached for the bottle without looking up. "Make it clean. No cheap tricks." I glanced up then. He stood by the table opposite the counter like he owned the space around him. Tall, sharp suit, expensive watch catching the neon lights. He wasn't drunk like the others. He was sober, alert, and already annoyed. The kind of man who expected the world to move when he did. I poured the shots. Set them down. "That'll be-" He checked his phone, cutting me off. "You took too long." Something in my chest tightened. "I didn't," I said evenly. His eyes lifted slowly, dragging over my face like he was deciding whether I was worth responding to. That look. I knew that look. Men wore it when they thought you were beneath them but useful enough to tolerate. "Just do your job," he said. I smiled. Not the friendly one. The brittle one. "Pay first." He laughed, short and humorless. Reached into his wallet and slapped a bill on the table. Not gently. Not respectfully. I took it, turned to grab change. Someone bumped into him from behind. His elbow hit my arm. The tray I'd just picked up tilted. Liquid flew. Amber splashed across his white shirt. Ice scattered. A glass shattered on the floor. I stared at his chest, soaked and ruined, my heart dropping straight into my stomach. "I'm so sorry," I said immediately. "I didn't mean-" "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped. Heads turned. Maya froze at the other end of the bar. Maya is my friend and she owns the bar. Weird right? "I said I'm sorry," I repeated, already grabbing napkins. "It was an accident." He stepped closer. "An accident?" His voice was low now. "Do you have any idea how much this shirt costs?" I looked up at him. "You shouldn't stand so close to the entrance if you don't want to get wet." His jaw tightened. "Excuse me?" "I apologized," I said, my voice shaking now, but I didn't stop. "You yelling at me won't unspill the drink." He laughed again. "You're a waitress. You spill drinks. That's literally your entire skill set." Something snapped inside me. I straightened. "And you're just a man in a suit who thinks money gives him permission to be disgusting." A murmur rippled through the room. His eyes darkened. "Watch your mouth." "Or what?" I shot back. "You'll complain to my manager? Ruin my life because your ego got damp?" I am this confident because Maya would never fire me. He leaned in. "You have no idea who you're talking to." "I don't care," I said. "And I don't get paid enough to stand here and be insulted." I shoved the napkins into his chest, harder than necessary, then turned away. He grabbed my wrist and turned me back to him. I stared at his hand. "Let go of me." "You don't walk away from me like that," he said. "Let. Go." He didn't. Something hot and furious rose in my chest. Years of swallowing words, of smiling through disrespect, of being small because it was safer. My hand moved before my brain caught up. The sound cracked through the bar. His head snapped to the side. Everywhere went silent. For a moment, he just stared at me, shock etched into his face, red blooming across his cheek. Then I pulled my wrist free and walked back to the counter. I didn't wait for my shift to end. I was tired, hungry, and angry. I grabbed my bag and walked through the back door. Outside, the night was quieter. Streetlights hummed. Cars passed in lazy waves. I walked a few blocks to my apartment, heels in my hand, toes numb against the pavement. My apartment was small. Clean but bare. Secondhand grey couch. A table with one uneven leg. A stack of unopened mail on the counter that I pretended didn't exist. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and finally opened the loan statement. The numbers stared back at me, cold and unmoved by my exhaustion. I sank onto the couch and pressed my fingers into my eyes until I saw stars. "I can't do this anymore," I whispered to the empty room. My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a bill. Unknown Number: Hello Camelia. This is Lina from New Horizons Fertility Center. Just following up on your inquiry about surrogacy. My chest tightened. I stared at the message. My heart was pounding like I had been caught doing something wrong. I had filled out the form weeks ago, late one night when desperation felt heavier than fear. I had closed my laptop afterward and told myself I was exploring options. That I wasn't actually going to do it. I hadn't expected them to call back so fast. I typed, deleted, typed again. Hi. Yes. I remember. Three dots appeared almost immediately. We reviewed your profile and would like to move forward if you're still interested. We can discuss compensation, medical screening, and timelines. Compensation. The word echoed in my head. I thought about the bar. The sticky floors. The tips that depended on smiles and silence. I thought about my degree, framed like a joke. I thought about the loan statement still open on my phone, numbers burning into my vision. I thought about how tired I was. I'm interested, I typed. The reply came with a time and an address. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, I got dressed and headed straight to the clinic. I texted Maya and told her I would be late. I didn't tell her about the surrogacy cause I knew she would talk me out of it. I sat in the waiting room with my hands folded in my lap, knees pressed together, heart racing. Other women sat nearby. Some alone, some with partners, and some scrolling through their phones like this was just another errand. I felt out of place in my thrift-store dress and worn flats. "Camelia?" I looked up. A woman with kind eyes and a clipboard smiled at me. "This way." The consultation room was small but comfortable. A couch, a desk, and a framed photo of a smiling baby on the wall. Lina sat across from me, crossing her legs. She spoke calmly, professionally. Explained the process. The screenings. The contracts. The compensation. The number made my breath hitch. It was enough to clear my student loans and help me start up something for myself. I tried not to react. I tried not to look desperate, but my fingers curled into the fabric of the couch. "That amount is paid in installments," she said, as if reading my thoughts. "Medical expenses covered. Legal fees covered. Support throughout the pregnancy." "And the baby," I said quietly. She nodded. "The baby is not legally yours. You would be helping the intended parents." I swallowed. My body felt suddenly heavy. "I'd like to proceed," I heard myself say. Lina smiled again. "We'll start with medical screening. If everything checks out, we'll match you with your intended parents." I signed forms I barely understood. Initial pages filled with words like liability and termination and risk. My name looked strange at the bottom of so many papers. When I left the clinic, the sun was too bright. The world felt unchanged, even though something inside me had shifted. I told myself I was doing this to survive. That it was temporary. That I could handle it. I didn't know yet how wrong I was.