A SURROGATE TO MY BILLIONAIRE EX HUSBAND

Celye pov

The paper trembles in my hand.

Not because of the cold.

Not because of the wind slicing through the quiet Paris evening.

Malignant.

The doctor had said it gently. Too gently.

“Stage two ovarian cancer, Ms. Celyne. We caught it early, but your uterus will likely need to be removed within the year and you need to start treatment immediately to avoid it from worsening.”

A tear slips down my cheek, warm against the winter air. Then another. And another. They fall soundlessly onto the diagnosis sheet like quiet confessions.

I don’t remember leaving the hospital.

I don’t remember how I ended up walking.

But I am walking now.

Endlessly.

The streets of Paris blur around me—golden lamps reflecting off wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic, laughter spilling from cafés. Life moving forward. People living.

And I am standing still inside a sentence that has already decided my future.

My womb will soon be gone.

The one part of me that could create life.

The irony tastes cruel.

I survived a car crash at twelve.

I survived losing my parents.

I survived my aunt’s bitterness, her sharp words slicing into me like I was responsible for their deaths.

But this?

A car horn blares violently.

My body jerks backward just as headlights flash inches from me. A vehicle screeches to a halt.

The driver rolls down the window, shouting in rapid French, furious and frightened. “Êtes-vous fou? ”

I blinked.

I am standing in the middle of the road.

“Sorry” I whisper, though he can’t hear me.

I step back onto the sidewalk. My heart pounds violently against my ribs. I press the diagnosis to my chest like I can force it back inside my body where it belongs.

The next morning, I am no longer in Paris.

I am standing beneath the burning sun of Los Angeles.

The air feels different here—thicker, louder, unapologetic. The city pulses with movement. Cars honk. People rush. Skyscrapers glitter with ambition.

Paris was where I hid.

Los Angeles is where things happen.

My fingers tighten around my suitcase handle. Clara’s text message glows on my phone screen.

Sunset Boulevard. Blue gate. Ill be waiting.

I raise my hand to flag a cab.

The driver doesn’t ask questions. I’m grateful.

As we move through the city, I watch everything blur past—the palm trees, the billboards, couples arguing on the sideways, a mother dragging a toddler who refused to move.

The cab finally stops in front of a modern house tucked behind a cobalt-blue gate. My throat tightens.

Home.

Or at least the closest thing to it.

The door swings open before I even knock.

Clara Noah stands there in cream silk trousers and bare feet, her dark hair falling perfectly over one shoulder. Polished. Controlled. Untouchable.

Until she sees my face.

“Celyne…” she breathes.

That’s all it takes.

The strength I’ve been pretending to carry collapses.

I drop my suitcase. I drop the paper. I drop to my knees in front of her like something inside me has been cut loose.

“I’m dying Clara,” I choke.

The word tastes metallic.

Clara doesn’t hesitate. She falls with me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as I bury my face against her legs like a child.

“I’m going to lose it,” I sob. “They’re going to take it away. I won’t have— I won’t ever—”

She grips my face firmly, forcing me to look at her.

“You are not dying,” she says sharply. “Do you hear me? You are not dying.”

But her eyes glisten.

She pulls me inside.

Clara has always been strength in heels.

She grew up two streets from mine. Her father drank his disappointments. Her mother worked three jobs and still smiled like exhaustion was a choice. Clara learned early how to survive in silence.

Now she sits across from me at her marble kitchen island, reading my diagnosis with tight lips.

“How long?” she asks quietly.

“Months before surgery,” I whisper. “Maybe less.”

Silence stretches between us.

She sets the paper down slowly.

“We’ll get second opinions.”

“I already did.”

“We’ll get third.”

I almost laugh.

Her phone buzzes on the counter. She ignores it.

“I won’t let this break you,” she says, voice low and steady.

That’s the thing about Clara.

She believes control is something you seize, not something you wait for.

Night falls quickly.

We sat on her balcony overlooking the city lights. I watch the skyline shimmer. Somewhere below, someone is falling in love. Someone is celebrating. Someone is planning a future.

I press my hand against my stomach.

My body feels like borrowed time.

“I don’t want it to end like this,” I whisper.

“It won’t.”

“I don’t want cancer to be the last thing my body remembers.”

Clara turns to me slowly.

“What are you saying?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know yet.

But something is forming.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the sheer curtains.

Clara is on a business call when I walk into the kitchen. Her voice is sharp, authoritative, efficient.

She ends the call when she sees my expression.

“What is it?”

I stand in the middle of her pristine kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of her oversized shirts.

“I’ve made a decision,” I say.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Celyne…”

“If they’re going to take my womb,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel, “then I’m going to use it one last time.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“What does that mean?” Clara asks carefully.

“It means I’m going to carry a child.”

Her face drains of color.

“For who?” she whispers.

I swallow.

“For someone who can’t.”

Clara stares at me as if I’ve just detonated something invisible between us.

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’ve never been clearer.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m alive.”

She steps toward me, her composure cracking for the first time.

“Celyne, this isn’t empowerment. This is desperation.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. “But it’s mine.”

The air thickens.

“You’re serious,” she breathes.

I nod.

“I’m going to become a surrogate mother.”