Bound to the Billionaire’s Baby

It wasn’t the kind of clinic you found on G****e.

No website. No sign. No receptionist offering lemon water in glass tumblers. Just a private elevator in the back of a boutique office building, and a text message containing a code.

Amara paused outside the consultation room, fingers white-knuckling the strap of her purse. Her stomach twisted. She’d rehearsed at least a dozen ways to turn back. But they all unraveled the moment she remembered the voicemail:

"If your brother’s chemo isn’t paid by Friday, we’ll have no choice but to stop treatment."

That was it. That was all it took to cross the line between survival and sacrifice.

The door opened with a soft hiss. A tall woman in a white coat and wire-rimmed glasses stepped into the hallway. Her expression was clinical. Not cold, just… detached. Like she'd seen a hundred women in Amara’s position and didn’t need to remember any of their names.

“You’re here for the surrogacy consultation?” the doctor asked.

Amara nodded, her voice locked in her throat.

She didn’t know what she expected—maybe something colder. A steel hallway. A sterile clipboard. But the room was warm. Soft lighting, gold sconces, and walls lined with deep mahogany panels gave the illusion of comfort. Like someone had tried to make desperation look luxurious.

She sat alone for five minutes. The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to measure each second of her dignity.

The doctor returned, no smile in sight. “Anonymous arrangement. No contact after delivery. Full medical coverage. Payment wired in four phases. Do you consent to the terms?”

Amara exhaled slowly. “I do,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor tapped her tablet. “Then meet the intended father.”

The words barely registered before the door behind her opened.

She turned. And the air left her lungs.

He walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room—and he probably did.

Tall, clean-cut, with a charcoal-gray suit that looked like it was tailored by hand. His jawline was sharp enough to be dangerous. But it was his eyes that stunned her—the same stormy gray eyes she hadn’t forgotten since that night five years ago.

No. It couldn’t be.

Liam Blackwood.

Billionaire. CEO of Blackwood Industries.

And the man who took her virginity in a one-night mistake that felt like fate... until he forgot she existed.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She froze, praying he wouldn’t recognize her. But he didn’t. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t know.

He took two steps closer and extended his hand, cool and formal. “I’m Liam,” he said. “I assume you’ve read the contract?”

She felt like the floor might give out beneath her.

This wasn’t happening. Not him. Not now.

Amara swallowed hard and reached out. She had to lie. She had no choice.

“Yes,” she said. “And I accept the terms.”

Their hands touched. It was nothing. A shake. A formality.

But her skin remembered more than it should have. The warmth of his body. The roughness of his jaw against her neck. The sound of his breath when he whispered her name like it was sacred.

Except… he didn’t even remember her name.

“I’ll leave you to finalize the paperwork,” the doctor said, oblivious, before slipping out again.

The silence was thick.

Amara pulled her hand away and turned toward the tablet, scrolling through the clauses. She couldn’t read a single word. Everything blurred.

Liam crossed the room and leaned against the windowsill, his profile clean and unreadable. He hadn’t changed. If anything, he looked sharper. More put-together. Like success had carved away anything soft.

“Is this your first surrogacy?” he asked, voice like polished steel.

She nodded again, careful not to speak too much. Her voice might crack, or worse, betray her.

He seemed satisfied. “I expect privacy and discretion. The media doesn’t need to know about this arrangement, and I don’t like surprises.”

Too late for that, she thought bitterly.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. She didn’t check it.

She couldn’t afford to feel anything right now—not fear, not rage, and definitely not the heat crawling up her spine from being near him again.

Because no matter how calm she looked on the outside, Amara was back in that motel room—seventeen, wide-eyed, breathless, and stupidly in love with a man who vanished before the sun came up.

He’d called her beautiful. He’d kissed her like he meant it.

Then he disappeared without a name, a number, or a second glance.

But now?

Now she’d be the stranger carrying his heir.