CHAPTER 2

DOMINIC'S POV 

The girl from the freezer won't leave my mind.

I sit in my office at midnight, staring at the contract my lawyers drafted, and all I can see is Emma Chen's tear-streaked face. The desperation in her eyes that mirrored something I understood too well.

Desperation makes people do impossible things. I should know. I built an empire on it.

My phone buzzes. Marcus, my CFO and closest friend.

"Tell me you didn't actually offer some random hotel employee half a million dollars to be your surrogate," his text reads.

I type back: "She's not random. She's perfect."

"Perfect how? You met her in a freezer while she was having a breakdown."

"Exactly. She needs the money badly enough that she won't get attached. Won't expect more than what the contract offers. Won't complicate things."

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: "You're going to hell."

Probably. But I'll be a father before I lose everything my grandmother is threatening to take away.

I pull up Emma's employee file. Twenty-seven years old. Graduated top of her class from community college culinary program. Every performance review notes her dedication and skill. No criminal record. No red flags.

The background check comes back clean. Emma Chen is exactly what she appears to be—a good person drowning in circumstances beyond her control.

My office door opens without a knock. Only one person has that privilege.

"Marcus. It's midnight."

"And you're here planning to impregnate an employee." He drops into the chair across from my desk. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm not impregnating anyone. It's artificial insemination. Clinical. Professional."

"Nothing about this is professional, Dom. You cornered a crying woman in a freezer and offered her money to carry your baby."

"I offered her a solution to her problem. She needs money. I need an heir. It's mutually beneficial."

Marcus runs his hand through his hair. "What happens in nine months when you have to take a baby from a woman who just spent nine months carrying it? You think that won't destroy her?"

"She'll sign away all parental rights. The contract is ironclad."

"Contracts don't protect people from their own hearts."

I lean back in my chair. "Then it's a good thing I don't have one."

"Don't do that. Don't pretend you're as cold as your grandmother." Marcus's voice softens. "I know why you're doing this. The deadline, the inheritance clause, all of it. But there are other ways."

"Name one."

"Get married. To someone real. Build an actual family."

The thought makes my chest tight. "I don't do marriage. You know that."

"Because your parents died and you decided love makes you vulnerable. But you can't live your whole life afraid of…."

"I'm not afraid. I'm practical. Marriage requires trust. Trust requires vulnerability. Vulnerability leads to loss. I've done the math, Marcus. It doesn't work out in my favor."

"So instead you'll buy a baby from a desperate woman and raise it alone in this emotional fortress you've built."

"Yes."

Marcus studies me. "What if she says no?"

"She won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I saw her face when I mentioned the money. Because her sister is dying, and she'll do anything to save her. Because sometimes people don't have the luxury of choosing the right thing. They just choose survival."

"Like you did."

I don't answer. Marcus knows my history. The group home after my parents died. The years of fighting and clawing my way up from nothing. Why control matters more to me than connection.

"If she says yes tomorrow, promise me you'll treat her like a person, not a transaction."

"The whole point is that it's a transaction."

"Promise me, Dominic."

I sigh. "Fine. I'll be respectful."

Marcus stands to leave, then pauses. "Your grandmother is testing you, you know. She doesn't actually want you to fail. She wants you to build something real."

"My grandmother wants to control me from beyond the grave. I'm not playing her game."

"Aren't you? You're scrambling to meet her arbitrary deadline, fundamentally changing your life because she wrote it in a will. Sounds like she's controlling you perfectly."

He leaves before I can respond.

My phone buzzes. An email from my assistant: "Reminder: meeting with potential surrogate candidate Emma Chen, 6 PM tomorrow."

Tomorrow. In eighteen hours, Emma Chen will walk into my office and give me her answer.

I pull up her employee photo. Even in the bland ID picture, there's something warm about her face. Open. Kind. The opposite of everyone in my world.

What am I doing?

Marcus is right. I'm asking this woman to carry my child for nine months and then walk away like it never happened.

No. Not her DNA. I'll use a donor egg. That's cleaner. The baby will be biologically mine and some anonymous donor's. Emma will just be the carrier. Fewer complications.

I send a quick email to my lawyers updating the contract terms.

My grandmother's face flashes through my mind. "You're forty in six months, Dominic. It's time you built something more than hotels. Build a family. Build a legacy. Or lose everything."

She doesn't understand that everything I built is my legacy. The company, the empire, the success. That's what matters.

I work through the night, reviewing contracts and proposals, anything to keep my mind off tomorrow's meeting. But at five AM, I give up and go home to shower and change.

I try to imagine a baby in my penthouse. A crib in the spare bedroom. Toys on the pristine floors. Someone small and helpless depending on me for everything.

The thought terrifies me more than any business deal ever has.

What if I'm like my grandmother? Cold and manipulative, using love as a weapon?

What if I can't do this?

The day drags. Meetings blur together. I can't focus on quarterly reports or expansion plans. All I can think about is a girl in a freezer, crying about her dying sister.

At five forty-five, my assistant calls. "Ms. Chen is here early. Should I send her in?"

"Give me two minutes."

I stand, straighten my jacket, and try to look like someone who makes reasonable decisions instead of desperate ones.

"Send her in."

The door opens. Emma walks in wearing the same work clothes from yesterday, her hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks exhausted and determined and terrified.

She's also holding a folder.

"Mr. Westbrook," she says quietly. "I have questions about the contract."

Not yes. Not no. Questions.

I gesture to the chair. "Sit. Ask me anything."

She sits on the edge of the seat, clutching the folder. "If I do this, I need to know you'll actually pay for my sister's treatment. Not after the baby is born. Now. Immediately."

"Done. I'll wire the funds directly to the hospital tomorrow."

"And the other three hundred thousand?"

"Half when you sign. Half when you deliver."

She nods slowly. "The contract says I have no parental rights. Ever. Even if I change my mind."

"That's correct."

"What if I want updates? Pictures? Just to know the baby is okay?"

This is where I should say no. Keep it clean. But something in her voice makes me pause.

"We can discuss limited updates. Nothing identifying. Nothing that creates a bond."

"Okay." She opens the folder, and I see pages of handwritten notes. She's done research. Lots of it. "What happens if something goes wrong? If the baby has health issues? If I have complications?"

"All medical care is covered, no matter what happens. The contract includes a clause protecting you financially even if….." I stop. "You and the baby's health come first. Always."

Her eyes met mine for the first time since she entered. "Why does it feel like you actually mean that?"

"Because I do. This may be a transaction, but I'm not a monster."

"Aren't you? You're asking me to grow a life inside me and hand it over like I'm A****n delivering a package."

The words sting because they're true. "Yes. I am. Because I need an heir and you need money, and this is the most efficient solution for both of us. But that doesn't mean I want you hurt in the process."

She's quiet for a long time, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

"My sister can't know the real reason I suddenly have money," she finally says. "She'd never accept it. I'll tell her I got a huge signing bonus for a new job."

"I can create a cover story. Consulting position, immediate signing bonus, whatever you need."

"You've thought of everything."

"That's my job."

Emma closes the folder and takes a deep breath. "I need one more thing. Something not in the contract."

Here it comes. The emotional request I can't fulfill.

"What?"

She looks me directly in the eyes. "Promise me you'll be a good father. Promise me that the baby won't grow up feeling unwanted or like a business deal. Because if I'm going to do this, if I'm going to carry a child and give it to you, I need to know it's going to lead a good life."

The request catches me off guard. She's not asking for visitation or money or any of the things I expected. She's asking me to be better than I probably am.

"I promise I'll try," I say quietly.

"That's not good enough."

"That's all I have."

We stare at each other across my desk. Two desperate people about to make a choice that will change everything.

Emma stands up and extends her hand. "Okay. I'll do it.”