Chapter 2

Nora's POV

I wake up to sunlight cutting through the blinds and immediately wish I hadn't.

My body feels like it's been hit by a truck. Everything aches. My stomach is cramping, my breasts are rock-hard and leaking through the hospital gown, and between my legs, there's a dull, constant throb that the pain medication can't quite touch.

But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emptiness.

I shift in the bed, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt. The IV in my arm tugs. I've been alone all night. Nobody came to check on me after the lawyer left. No nurses asking how I'm doing. No doctor checking my recovery.

I guess when you're just the surrogate, you don't get the same care as the actual mother.

The door opens and a nurse walks in. Not the kind one from yesterday. This one is younger, all business, checking the chart at the foot of my bed without really looking at me.

"How's your pain level?" she asks.

"Fine."

"Bleeding?"

"Normal, I think."

She makes a note. "Doctor will be by later to clear you for discharge. Should be out of here by noon."

Noon. Less than twenty-four hours after giving birth and they're kicking me out. I shouldn't be surprised. The contract was clear about everything, including the timeline. Deliver the baby, sign the papers, leave.

Clean. Efficient. Done.

The nurse checks my vitals quickly, adjusts something on the IV, and heads for the door.

"Wait," I say. "The baby. Is she okay? Did she sleep through the night?"

The nurse pauses, hand on the doorknob. Her expression shifts, just slightly. Uncomfortable. "You'd have to ask the parents about that."

The parents. Not you. Never you.

She leaves before I can say anything else.

I sink back into the pillows and close my eyes. This was always going to be hard. I knew that going in. But knowing something and living through it are completely different things.

My mind drifts back to ten months ago. Before the pregnancy. Before the contract. Back when I still thought I could handle my life on my own.

I was in my apartment, the tiny studio in Brooklyn that cost way too much for what it was. Sitting at my kitchen table that doubled as my desk, staring at another stack of bills I couldn't pay.

The knock on the door made me jump.

I wasn't expecting anyone. I looked through the peephole and saw two men in cheap suits. My stomach dropped. I knew exactly who they were.

I opened the door but kept the chain on. "Can I help you?"

The taller one smiled. It wasn't friendly. "Nora Ashford?"

"Yes."

"We're here on behalf of Consolidated Debt Solutions. You've missed three payments on your outstanding balance. We need to discuss repayment options."

My hands started shaking. I gripped the doorframe. "I told your office I'm working on it. I just need more time."

"You've had time, Miss Ashford. Six months of time. The balance is now forty-seven thousand dollars with accumulated interest and fees."

Forty-seven thousand. It had been thirty-five thousand when Dad died. How did it grow so fast?

"That doesn't make sense," I said. "The original debt was for his medical bills. Thirty-five thousand. I've been paying what I can."

"Late fees. Interest. Collection costs. It adds up." The shorter man pulled out a tablet, showed me a screen full of numbers that made my vision blur. "We can set up a payment plan, but we'll need a down payment today. Ten thousand."

I almost laughed. Ten thousand. I had maybe three hundred dollars in my checking account.

"I don't have that," I said.

"Then we'll need to discuss asset seizure. Do you own this apartment?"

"I rent."

"Vehicle?"

"Don't have one."

The tall man's smile got sharper. "Then we'll have to pursue wage garnishment. Where do you work?"

I worked three jobs. Coffee shop in the mornings, freelance graphic design when I could get clients, and bartending on weekends. None of them paid enough to survive wage garnishment.

"I'll figure something out," I said. "Just give me two weeks."

They exchanged a look. The shorter one handed me a card. "Two weeks, Miss Ashford. Then we proceed with legal action."

They left. I closed the door, slid down to the floor, and tried not to cry.

I had no idea how to get ten thousand dollars in two weeks. I had no family to borrow from. No friends with that kind of money. I'd already sold everything valuable I owned.

Dad's death had destroyed me financially. The medical bills from his last month alive. The funeral costs. Then finding out his tech company had collapsed under mysterious debt right before he died, leaving me with nothing but bills in my name that I didn't even understand.

I spent the next week applying for loans. All rejected. My credit was garbage. I picked up extra shifts at the bar, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Then Jade called.

We hadn't spoken in months. Not since she started dating Marcus and turned into someone I didn't recognize. But her name flashed on my phone screen and some stupid, hopeful part of me thought maybe she was reaching out as a friend.

"Nora, hi," she said when I answered. Her voice was bright. Too bright. "I know it's been forever, but I need to talk to you about something. Can we meet for coffee?"

I should have said no. I should have hung up. But I was desperate and lonely and she was the closest thing to family I had left.

We met at a café in Manhattan. Jade showed up in designer everything, looking like she'd stepped out of a magazine. I showed up in jeans with a hole in the knee and my waitress uniform underneath because I had a shift right after.

She ordered some complicated drink that cost twelve dollars. I got black coffee.

"You look tired," she said, stirring her drink.

"I am tired."

"Still working multiple jobs?"

"Yeah."

She made this sympathetic sound that felt fake. "I wish I could help. Money is just so tight right now with the wedding planning and everything."

The wedding. Right. She was marrying Marcus Wolfe, tech billionaire, and money was tight.

"It's fine," I said. "I'm managing."

"Actually," Jade leaned forward, "that's kind of why I wanted to talk to you. Marcus and I have a proposition. It could really help you out financially."

Warning bells went off in my head. "What kind of proposition?"

"Okay, so you know how much Marcus and I want to start a family, right? But I have some medical issues that make pregnancy really risky for me." She touched her flat stomach like it pained her. "The doctors said I could try, but there's a high chance of complications. Life-threatening complications."

I didn't say anything. Just waited.

"So we've been looking into surrogacy," Jade continued. "And honestly, Nora, you were the first person I thought of. You're healthy, you're young, and I trust you. Plus, I know you're going through a rough time financially. This could solve both our problems."

My coffee suddenly tasted like ash. "You want me to carry your baby?"

"Our baby. Marcus's and mine. You'd just be helping us out. And we'd compensate you really well. One hundred thousand dollars."

One hundred thousand dollars. More than double what I owed. Enough to pay off the debt, get a better apartment, maybe even go back to school.

"I don't know, Jade. That's a huge ask."

"I know it is. But think about it. Nine months, and all your problems go away. You'd be giving us the greatest gift imaginable, and you'd be set financially. It's a win for everyone."

She made it sound so simple. So clean. Just nine months of my life in exchange for freedom from the crushing weight of debt that was slowly killing me.

"I need to think about it," I said.

"Of course. Take your time." She slid a business card across the table. "That's Marcus's lawyer. When you're ready, just give him a call. He'll explain everything."

I took the card. Stared at it for days. The debt collectors called twice more, each time more aggressive. My landlord threatened eviction. I was drowning.

So I called the lawyer.

He explained the contract. Very thorough. Very detailed. I'd carry the baby, have no parental rights, receive one hundred thousand upon successful delivery. Medical expenses covered. A stipend during pregnancy for living costs.

It seemed too good to be true.

It was too good to be true.

But I was desperate. So I signed.

A knock on the recovery room door snaps me back to the present. I open my eyes, half expecting another nurse or that lawyer again, but it's the kind nurse from yesterday. The older one.

She slips inside, glancing over her shoulder like she's checking if anyone followed her.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asks, coming to my bedside.

"Okay, I guess."

She checks my vitals, gentle and thorough. Then she does something unexpected. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small photo, the kind they print in the nursery.

"I thought you might want this," she whispers, pressing it into my hand. "I'm not supposed to, but every mother should have at least one picture."

I look down at the photo. It's her. My baby. Not mine. But still. She's wrapped in a pink blanket, tiny face peaceful, eyes closed. She's beautiful. Perfect.

My throat closes up. "Thank you."

"What did they name her?" the nurse asks softly.

I realize I don't know. Nobody told me. "I have no idea."

The nurse's expression tightens with something like anger, but she smooths it away. "Well, she's healthy. Strong. You did good."

She squeezes my shoulder and leaves before I can respond.

I stare at the photo. Memorize every detail of that small face. The curve of her cheek. The way her mouth is slightly open. The dark hair peeking out from under the cap.

I should throw this away. It'll only make things harder. But I can't. I tuck it into my bag instead, hiding it under my wallet where I won't have to look at it but I'll know it's there.

The morning drags on. A different doctor comes by, barely looks at me, clears me for discharge. Another nurse brings paperwork about postpartum warning signs, breastfeeding suppression medication, follow-up appointments I probably won't keep.

I sign everything. Answer all the questions. Play the part.

By eleven, I'm dressed in the clothes I wore when I came in. Maternity leggings that are now too big, a loose shirt that smells like the lavender detergent I can't afford anymore. Everything I own fits in one bag.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for someone to tell me I can leave, when the door opens again.

It's the lawyer. James Chen. He's carrying a folder this time, and his expression is even more detached than yesterday.

"Miss Ashford," he says. "I have your discharge papers and the final documentation from Mr. Wolfe."

He hands me the folder. I open it. Inside are the standard discharge instructions, a prescription for pain medication, and another document with the Wolfe Industries letterhead.

I scan it quickly. Legal language that basically says I'm released from the contract, all obligations fulfilled, payment pending.

Then I see the bottom section. My stomach drops.

"What is this?" I ask, pointing to a paragraph that makes no sense. "It says the final payment is adjusted for breach of moral clause?"

"Yes," the lawyer says. His voice is completely neutral. "Mr. Wolfe invoked clause seventeen of the contract. Due to the breach, the final payment has been reduced to cover medical expenses only. No additional compensation will be provided."

I read it again. I must be reading it wrong. "That can't be right. The contract said one hundred thousand dollars upon delivery. I delivered. She's healthy."

"The clause was triggered by behavior deemed inappropriate by Mr. Wolfe during the pregnancy term."

"What behavior? I did everything they asked. Every appointment, every restriction, everything."

The lawyer pulls out another paper, shows me a section I barely remember signing. Buried in the middle of page eighteen. Moral conduct clause. The surrogate agrees to maintain appropriate professional boundaries and conduct herself in a manner befitting the arrangement.

"I don't understand," I say. My hands are shaking. "What did I do wrong?"

"Mr. Wolfe felt that your conduct during the third trimester was overly familiar and emotionally inappropriate. You were reminded multiple times to maintain distance."

Overly familiar. I think back. The only times I even saw Marcus were at medical appointments. I barely spoke to him. The only thing I can think of is once, around month seven, when I asked if they'd picked a name yet. He'd shut me down immediately, told me it wasn't my concern.

Was that it? Was asking about a name too familiar?

"This isn't fair," I say. "I did everything right. I carried their baby. I gave up nine months of my life."

"The contract allows for Mr. Wolfe's discretion regarding the moral clause. His decision is final." The lawyer taps the paper. "You already signed the release yesterday. This is just documentation of the financial terms."

"I signed when I thought I was getting paid what we agreed on."

"You signed a release of all claims. That includes financial claims."

The room spins. I grip the edge of the bed. "So I get nothing? After everything?"

"Your medical expenses are covered, as stated. That's quite generous considering the breach."

Generous. He used the same word Marcus did yesterday. Thank you for your service.

They planned this. They always planned this. Let me sign the release while I was drugged and in pain, then hit me with this after I can't fight back.

"You can't do this," I say, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.

"It's already done, Miss Ashford. I suggest you review the contract with your own legal counsel if you have concerns, though I should mention that pursuing legal action would be expensive and, given the ironclad nature of the contract, unlikely to succeed." He closes his briefcase. "You're free to leave whenever you're ready. The hospital has arranged for a car service to take you home, courtesy of Mr. Wolfe."

He walks out.

I sit there, staring at the papers in my hands. One hundred thousand dollars. That was supposed to save me. Pay off the debt. Give me a fresh start.

Instead, I have nothing. Less than nothing. I'm in worse shape than when I started because now I'm postpartum, can't work for weeks, and still drowning in debt.

They used me. Marcus and Jade. They used my body, took what they wanted, and threw me away like garbage.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

I grab my bag and walk out of the room. The hallway is empty. Most of the nurses are busy with other patients. I head toward the elevator, passing the nursery window on the way.

I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't.

But I do.

Through the glass, I can see rows of tiny bassinets. And there, in the corner, is Jade. She's holding the baby, posing while Marcus takes photos with his phone. She's wearing a different outfit than yesterday. Something soft and maternal-looking. For the photos.

The baby starts crying. Jade's smile falters. She tries to soothe her but she's doing it wrong, jostling her too much. The baby cries harder.

A nurse approaches, tries to help. Jade waves her off, annoyed. Hands the baby to Marcus instead. He takes her, awkward but trying. The baby keeps crying.

I could help. I know I could. Nine months of reading every book, watching every video, preparing for a role I'd never get to play. I know what that baby needs.

But I'm not allowed.

I turn away from the window and get in the elevator. The doors close. I watch the numbers go down. Ground floor. Exit.

The car service is waiting outside. A black sedan. The driver opens the door for me without a word.

I climb in and give him my address. The apartment I'm about to lose because I can't pay rent.

As we pull away from the hospital, I look back once. Just once. The building gets smaller in the distance.

Somewhere in there is my daughter.

And I'll never see her again.