Chapter 4: Triggers and Reminders

The nausea hit her just after breakfast.

It wasn’t dramatic—not the cinematic, head-in-a-toilet kind—but sharp and sudden, like her stomach had changed its mind about being full. Amara gripped the edge of the bathroom sink and breathed through her mouth, willing the sensation to pass.

She hadn’t even reached week five.

They had told her symptoms could start early—fatigue, soreness, food aversions. But something about feeling it for the first time made it real in a way the bloodwork and printed schedules hadn’t.

There was a baby growing inside her.

A baby with his DNA.

She straightened slowly, pressing a damp washcloth to her neck. Her reflection in the mirror looked… normal. Maybe a little pale. But otherwise unchanged.

“Keep it together,” she whispered. “No one needs to know how you feel.”

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She checked the message.

> BLACKWOOD MEDICAL TEAM:

You have a car scheduled for pickup at 9:30 a.m. for your intake evaluation. Be prompt.

No greeting. No name. No "How are you?"

Just instructions.

---

The car was already idling when she stepped outside her apartment. Sleek. Black. Tinted. Of course.

The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door, nodded once, and returned to his seat.

Amara slid in and tucked her hands in her lap. The city outside blurred past in a haze of traffic lights and rushed pedestrians, but her mind was quiet. Too quiet.

She should have been thinking about blood pressure. Vitals. Lab panels. Instead, she kept replaying that dream. The one where Liam told another woman the words he once gave her.

Unforgettable smile, he’d said.

She hated that she remembered it so clearly.

She hated more that he didn’t.

---

The clinic wasn’t the same one from the consultation. This one was quieter. Private. The kind of place you only knew existed if you had the right bank account or the right last name.

“Ms. Moore?” a nurse called gently.

Amara rose and followed her down a hallway lined with art that probably cost more than her entire rent for the year.

“Vitals first,” the nurse said. “Then Dr. Ahn will see you.”

Routine. Efficient. Painless.

Until the door opened again—and it wasn’t Dr. Ahn who walked in.

It was a woman in her early 30s, sharply dressed, holding a digital clipboard like it was a weapon.

“You’re Amara Moore?” she asked, already typing.

“Yes.” Amara’s voice was cautious.

“I’m Celeste Vaughn. Special liaison to Mr. Blackwood.” Her words were clipped, not unkind, but clearly rehearsed. “I’ll be overseeing your case, handling media prevention, appointment logistics, and behavioral documentation.”

“Behavioral?” Amara blinked. “I didn’t realize I was under surveillance.”

Celeste smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re not. But the Blackwoods have had… experiences. It’s standard procedure to document surrogate conduct. You’ll find it all outlined in your contract.”

Amara bristled. She knew what this was.

She wasn’t being managed.

She was being monitored.

Celeste tapped her tablet again. “You’ll receive a weekly stipend in addition to your medical expenses. Mr. Blackwood has also arranged for a private OB of his choosing. You’ll be expected to relocate to a company-owned apartment by the end of next week for safety and monitoring.”

The nausea returned—not from the pregnancy this time.

“I have a lease,” Amara said quietly. “I can’t just leave.”

“You’ll be compensated for the remainder of your lease. This is a non-negotiable condition of the ongoing agreement.”

Amara pressed her lips together. Liam didn’t need to say a word. His world was full of people who spoke for him.

“Of course,” she said.

Celeste paused and glanced up for the first time. “If I may… this is an opportunity most women would be grateful for.”

Amara smiled. It wasn’t genuine.

“I am grateful,” she said. “But don’t mistake that for silence.”

There was a flicker—barely visible—but Celeste nodded. “Duly noted.”

---

By the time she stepped out of the clinic, Amara felt like she’d aged a year in an hour. The sunlight hit her face too sharply. Her shoulders ached. Her mouth was dry.

She sat back in the car and finally let her eyes close. For five seconds. Ten.

Then she pulled out her phone.

> Hey, kid. Morning sickness is here. Let’s hope you’re worth it.

She almost deleted it. Then added:

I’m rooting for you. Even if he’s not.

She hit save in her notes app—not send.

Because Liam Blackwood didn’t want a connection.

He wanted a result.

And Amara was going to give him that.

But she wouldn’t make it easy.