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Ashley POV

I walked into the room with my fingers tightening around the hem of the towel.

The first thing I noticed was the examination bed. The second was the woman standing beside it in a white coat.

A female doctor.

Thank goodness. At least there was that.

“Lie down,” she instructed.

I climbed onto the bed, suddenly very aware of how exposed I was. The doctor picked up a pair of gloves and glanced at the file beside her.

“Spread your legs.”

I hesitated for barely a second before obeying.

She began by asking a few questions about my medical history, whether I had any known allergies, previous surgeries, reproductive health issues, or a history of sexually transmitted infections. Her tone was clipped, and she barely looked at me while I answered.

After that came the blood samples, which, apparently, would be used to screen for infections and assess my general health. She explained that I would also need an ultrasound to examine my reproductive organs and that further fertility assessments might be required before a final decision could be made.

I understood the purpose of the tests. If I was going to carry someone else’s child, they needed to know whether my body could safely handle a pregnancy.

That part made sense.

What didn’t make sense was the way the doctor treated me.

When she proceeded with the pelvic examination, she gave me little warning before beginning. I tensed immediately, my hands gripping the edge of the bed as discomfort shot through me.

“Relax,” she snapped.

I almost laughed.

Relax?

Was she serious?

But sure. Relax.

She continued without taking the time to check whether I was comfortable.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

It wasn’t necessarily the examination itself. I understood that some medical procedures could be uncomfortable. It was the complete disregard for the fact that there was a person attached to the body being examined.

I wanted to tell her to stop. I wanted to ask whether this was how she treated every woman who came through that door.

But every time I thought about speaking, Jason’s face appeared in my mind.

Fifty million dollars.

Two weeks.

A donor who wouldn’t wait forever.

So I swallowed my discomfort and concentrated on keeping my expression neutral.

I needed to be selected.

When the examination was finally over, I dressed as quickly as I could. The doctor made a brief note in my file and told me I could leave.

No reassurance. No explanation of the results. Nothing.

I walked out with my jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt.

An attendant directed me to the main lounge, where the other women were waiting.

I took a seat at the far end of the room and folded my hands in my lap, trying to settle the unpleasant knot in my stomach.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in talking. A few women whispered amongst themselves, but most of us were occupied with our own thoughts.

I wondered whether everyone had been treated the same way. I wondered whether anyone had complained.

And, more importantly, I wondered whether any of us would actually get selected.

I didn’t have to wait long for an answer to the last question.

A woman entered the lounge and stood before us.

“The final assessment will begin shortly,” she announced. “Before we proceed, I need to ask whether anyone would like to withdraw from the program.”

Several heads lifted.

“You’re free to leave now. Anyone who chooses to withdraw will receive one thousand dollars as compensation for the time spent here today.”

One thousand dollars.

For simply walking away.

Nobody moved.

We looked at one another, each woman seemingly waiting for somebody else to make the first decision.

A minute passed.

The woman nodded as though she had expected this.

“Very well. Let’s begin.”

A few moments later, an older woman walked into the room.

She was elegant in a way that made the rest of us look as though we’d dressed in the dark.

But it was her expression that caught my attention.

Pretty, yes.

Warm? Not particularly.

Her gaze moved across the room with an almost clinical precision before she took her place at the front.

“Each of you will meet with me privately,” she said. “You will be called in order. When your interview is complete, you will return to the lounge and wait for further instructions.”

That was all.

No explanation of what she would be asking. No hint of what we were supposed to say.

Of course.

Why make anything easy when you could turn it into an elaborate mystery?

The interviews began.

One woman went in. Then another.

Some returned looking relieved. Others appeared thoughtful, as though they were still trying to make sense of the conversation they’d just had.

I watched them carefully, hoping someone would give something away.

Nobody did.

Eventually, only one woman remained ahead of me.

She entered the room with her shoulders squared and her chin lifted. When she came out, she looked neither happy nor disappointed. She simply collected her things and sat down.

Then the attendant called my name.

“Ashley.”

I stood, smoothing my skirt even though I was no longer wearing the towel. My palms were damp, and my heart had begun to beat a little too quickly.

I walked to the door and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called.

I opened it.

The older woman sat behind a desk, examining a document. She didn’t look up when I entered.

“Good afternoon,” I greeted her.

She continued reading.

I stood there awkwardly for a moment before taking the seat opposite her when she gestured towards it.

For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the quiet turning of paper.

Then she put the document down and looked directly at me.

“How far are you willing to go to get what you need?”

I blinked.

That was an interesting way to begin an interview.

“Tell me what kind of person you are,” she added.

I sat a little straighter.

What kind of person was I?

She wasn’t interested in hearing how wonderful I thought I was.

She wanted to know something else.

I looked down at my hands.

“Honestly?” I began. “I don’t think I’m the best person to ask that question right now.”

One of her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“I’ve spent the last few years trying very hard to be the kind of person someone else wanted me to be. I changed the way I dressed. The way I spoke. Even the things I allowed myself to want. I kept thinking that if I could just get everything right, if I could become a little easier to love, then maybe I would finally be enough.”

My throat tightened.

But once the words began coming out, it became difficult to stop them.

“Recently, I found out that the person I’d been trying so hard to please was perfectly comfortable humiliating me. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even surprised by how much it hurt. I was surprised by how long I’d been willing to make myself smaller just to keep him happy.”

The woman remained silent.

I swallowed, fighting the sudden sting behind my eyes.

“I don’t want to pretend that I’m here for some noble reason. I’m not. I need the money. My brother is sick, and he needs treatment that I can’t afford. If I get selected, it could save his life.”

My voice wavered on the last few words.

“But I also know what it’s like to be desperate enough to forget that you matter, too,” I continued. “And I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

For the first time since I’d entered the room, the woman’s expression changed.

It was tiny. Almost nothing.

A slight tightening around her eyes. A brief pause in her breathing.

But I saw it.

Then the expression disappeared.

I wondered whether I’d imagined it.

“I can’t promise that I’ll find this easy,” I said. “I can’t promise that I won’t be frightened or that I won’t have moments when I question my decision. But I can promise that I’ll take my responsibilities seriously. I won’t treat this like a game, and I won’t pretend that the choices I make won’t affect other people.”

“But I can tell you what I hope to do. I can tell you what I’m willing to try. But I can’t stand here and tell you that money will make me agree to absolutely anything.”

The room went quiet.

I immediately wondered whether I’d just ruined everything.

Brilliant, Ashley. Absolutely brilliant. You desperately need fifty million dollars, and you’ve decided to give a stranger a speech about personal boundaries.

The woman leaned back in her chair.

For a moment, she simply studied me.

Then she stood.

“Our staff will explain the next steps to you.”

That was it.

No feedback. No indication of whether I’d answered correctly.

I rose from my chair, trying not to let my disappointment show. I couldn’t tell whether the interview had gone well.

I reached the door.

“You’re in,” she said.

I stopped.

Slowly, I turned around.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re in, Ashley.”