THE BILLIONAIRE’S SURROGACY TRAP

The nurse’s station was in chaos.

“Amira, don’t—” one of her coworkers whispered, but Amira was already charging down the corridor, fists clenched, the disciplinary notice crumpled in her hand like an insult she couldn’t ignore.

She pushed open the glass door of the administrator’s office with so much force it slammed into the wall.

Dr. Langston barely looked up from his desk. “Miss Wells.”

“You’re suspending me for what, exactly?” she snapped, voice shaking but fierce.

The senior administrator leaned back slowly in his leather chair, like he had all the time in the world. “Protocol violation. Patient 417 was administered insulin outside of the scheduled window. That’s automatic grounds—”

“I corrected it five minutes later! The chart was misflagged, and I updated it. The patient was stable. And you know that.”

Langston removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have a history of emotional reactions, Miss Wells. We’ve documented—”

“This is retaliation,” she shot back, voice rising. “I reported Dr. McKay for harassing me last week. You ignored it. And now, magically, I’m suspended?”

Langston stood, voice going cold. “You’ve always been dramatic, Amira. You’re not being fired. You’re being reviewed. Take the week off, reflect, and let this process work.”

The door opened behind her. Two security guards stepped inside.

Amira froze. “You called security?”

“Just a precaution,” Langston said. “Given your… temperament.”

“I saved that patient!” she yelled. “You’re punishing me for being the only one who gives a damn in this place!”

One of the guards stepped forward. Amira’s chest heaved. Tears blurred her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

She took one final look at Langston. “You people don’t deserve me,” she whispered, and walked out with her head high and her heart shattering.

It was pouring by the time she hit the sidewalk.

She stood beneath the overhang, soaked in cold rain and bitter humiliation. The hospital badge hung limp around her neck like a noose, the word SUSPENDED stamped across her name in red ink.

A hard gust of wind blew her umbrella inside out. She let it go.

She didn’t have cab fare. Her phone was at 6%. And Zoe—her seventeen-year-old sister with failing kidneys—needed her.

Amira swallowed hard, crossing the street with shoes soaked through and heart pounding. The winter rain felt like punishment, soaking her to the bone.

She passed the alley behind the hospital and heard the low purr of an engine.

A black SUV crept behind her, silent, slow, watching.

She stopped walking.

The SUV stopped, too.

Her pulse spiked.

She turned sharply and bolted into the alley.

It was stupid—dangerous—but her instincts were louder than reason. She sprinted past dumpsters, puddles splashing beneath her feet, her breath fogging in the air as her scrub pants clung to her legs like wet paper.

The SUV pulled around to the other end, cutting her off.

A man stepped out, holding a black umbrella.

“Miss Wells,” he called calmly, like they weren’t in a dark alley in the middle of a storm. “Please don’t run. I’m not here to harm you.”

Amira stopped cold, chest heaving. Her fists were clenched, adrenaline still high. “You followed me.”

“No. I was instructed to find you.”

She took a shaky step back. “Who are you?”

He was tall. Clean cut. Business suit, earpiece—looked like someone out of a secret service thriller.

“My name is Carson Dean. I represent Mr. Dominic Voss.”

She blinked through the rain. “Dominic… Voss? The CEO?”

“The same.”

Amira scoffed. “What could he possibly want with me?”

Dean stepped forward, slow and measured. “He has a proposition. One that could… change your life.”

“I’m not for sale.”

“This isn’t an offer for your body,” he said evenly. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then what is it?”

“Mr. Voss would prefer to explain that himself. If you’d agree to meet with him—tonight.”

She hesitated, wet strands of hair clinging to her face.

“If you’re worried,” he added, “you’ll be chauffeured to a secure location. Alone. You may leave at any time.”

“Why me?”

Dean tilted his head. “Let’s just say… Mr. Voss believes you’re the right fit.”

Her gut twisted. But she thought of Zoe. Of eviction notices. Of the fact that her bank account had $14.72 and her student loan company had left a fifth voicemail that morning.

“Where?” she asked.

Dean offered a thin smile. “The Voss estate. I’ll have the car brought around.”

Voss Estate – One Hour Later

The car ride had been silent. No music. No conversation.

Just rain tapping against tinted glass and Amira’s rising nausea.

The estate sat on thirty acres of wooded seclusion north of the city. A sprawling, minimalist mansion made of glass, steel, and impossible money.

Inside, everything was sharp, clean, and cold.

A woman in a gray dress greeted her and took her wet coat wordlessly. The floors were heated. The silence echoed.

Then—footsteps.

He entered like someone used to being watched. Like someone who didn’t need to try to be intimidating. It just happened.

Dominic Voss.

Early forties. Black tailored suit. Crisp white shirt. Every movement efficient. Polished. Controlled.

His eyes locked onto hers with unsettling precision.

“Miss Wells,” he said, voice smooth but unreadable.

She stood taller. “Mr. Voss.”

“Thank you for coming. I imagine today has been… difficult.”

“You could say that.”

He gestured to a nearby chair. “Please.”

She didn’t sit.

He walked to the fireplace and tapped a screen hidden in the wall. A file opened—a video. Her video.

Security footage. From the hospital. Her yelling. Being escorted out.

Her face flushed. “You’re spying on me?”

“I pay very well for access. Public institutions leave a wide digital footprint.”

“This is insane.”

He turned, calm. “What happened to you today was unfair. But predictable. You’re outspoken. Loyal. And easily underestimated.”

She stiffened. “What do you want from me?”

He walked to a glass table and picked up a leather folder.

“I need a surrogate.”

Her throat went dry. “You brought me here… for that?”

“Not just any surrogate. Someone strong. Discreet. Morally aligned. You.”

Her voice was tight. “You could hire anyone. Why me?”

He opened the folder.

“$250,000 upon confirmation of pregnancy. Another $250,000 at the start of the third trimester. And $1.5 million upon delivery.”

Amira blinked.

“This is… over two million dollars.”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly do you get?”

“My child. Genetic heir. Carried by someone capable.”

She swallowed. “And in exchange, I’m what—housed here? Monitored?”

“You’ll be cared for. Protected. Not imprisoned. Unless you violate terms.”

“What terms?”

His eyes darkened. “No romantic relationships. No media. No external contact without prior clearance. And no termination.”

She stepped back. “So I would be a prisoner.”

“You would be a contractor,” he said coolly. “With more compensation than most earn in a decade.”

“And if I say no?”

He smiled faintly. “Then you leave. No pressure. No threats. But the offer expires tonight.”

Her heart pounded. “Why so fast?”

“Because I don’t believe in wasted time. And your sister, Zoe, doesn’t have much of it, does she?”

She froze.

“I know about her condition. Stage three kidney failure. I also know you’ve missed her last three co-pays.”

Her mouth parted, but no words came.

“You’re strong, Miss Wells,” he said, walking past her toward the window. “But everyone breaks. You just need to decide if you’d rather break for nothing… or break for something that matters.”