Chapter 2

Emily's POV

I'm standing in front of a gigantic, gray building that looms over me like a serpent about to devour me. My feet feel shaky like jello when I take a step towards the door, and they refuse to heed what my brain is indicating.

"Keep it together." I tell myself 

"Good day, and welcome to Collin Towers. Do you have an appointment?" inquires the cheery receptionist. 

'You've got this, Emily,' I say to myself as I go into the glistening entryway.

"I'm here to see Charlotte Collins, yes. I have a meeting with her at 2 p.m.," I add, smiling.

Her demeanor shifts in an instant. She sits up straight and buttons her jacket. She begins to fidget with her hair and appears uncomfortable, almost terrified.

"Whom shall I say is here?"

"It's Emily Adams," I say.

She picks up the phone and begins speaking softly. Then she motions for me to have a seat and asks if I want something to drink before returning to her desk.

I make myself at ease and grab a magazine. Jacob Collin appears on the cover, smiling heartily as he stands with his arms folded. His eyes are turquoise blue, and his skin is copper. He could pass for a model in his crisp white shirt and blue jeans.

It's easy to see why he's been labeled New York's most eligible bachelor, with that sculpted jaw and high cheekbones. The angle at which the photo was taken gives the impression that he is staring directly at me. I start blushing as I feel a tiny flutter in my chest.

I had not heard anything for about two weeks after writing that email. Then, one evening, an answer arrived: "Dear Miss Adams, Mrs Collin would be delighted to invite you to Collin Towers. Please respond with a suitable date and time."

The receptionist approaches me and motions for me to follow her. She examines me, dressed in a fancy suit, and her gaze is drawn to my skirt. It's the most okay-ish item I could find in my closet, since most of my stuff are thrift store discoveries. I begin ruffling down the pleats and smile weakly at her.

We take the elevator to the roof. She urges me to remove my shoes before approaching the double oak doors and then removes her own. I'm perplexed, but I do what she instructs. I also give her my purse and phone.

We step upon what can only be described as softness in its purest form as she unlocks the doors. My feet brush across the softest wool, and I can't help but smile. 

An old lady comes out of nowhere and extends her hand in greeting.

I start murmuring apologies to her, startled.

She's wearing a black satin gown with a strand of pearls around her neck.

"No need to be sorry, dear." She doesn't smile; instead, she just stares at me.

The receptionist rushes away, leaving us alone.

"So you're Emily Adams." I must admit that your email piqued my interest. What a tragedy for your brother. I'm so sorry to hear that," she says without introducimg herself. I believe Charlotte Collin doesn't need to be introduced.

Charlotte takes a seat on a brown leather sofa and puffs on her e-cigarette. "Don't mind this," she says as she exhales the smoke. "A woman needs a little enjoyment at 80, and this is my form of enjoyment. Please have a seat so we can get to know each other."

The receptionist returns with a folder full of documents and as quickly as she arrives she exits. Charlotte takes out a pen and places the documents in front of me once she's gone.

"Before we proceed, I must insist that you sign this non disclosure agreement. There's no need to read it; I've had my lawyers look over it and everything is in order." She makes it sound like a demand rather than a plea.

That joyful feeling I had vanishes in an instant.

I sign each page as I swiftly scan over the documentation. The pen in my hand is trembling, and I can see from the corner of my eye that she is aware of it as well.

"I'm glad we got the nitty gritty out of the way. I'm seeking a surrogate for, shall we say, a colleague. If the implantation goes well and you bring the baby to term, you will be paid $350,000." She beams.

"Of course, I have conditions. Every doctor's appointment will be accompanied by a handler. The doctor will be chosen by me. During your pregnancy, you must adhere to a strict diet and work no job. Is it true that you work as a waitress?" Charlotte inquires as she takes another puff on her e-cigarette.

"I do," I confirm.

"Well, that has to come to an end if you agree to the terms of our agreement," she replies. "This child will be valuable cargo, and I cannot risk its life while you do what you do." And then she pauses before she adds. "And one more thing. We're going the old-fashioned way. I can't afford for word to spread that someone connected with the Collins is seeing a fertility specialist."

"Excuse me, I don't know what you mean," I answer, surprised. I wasn't expecting that at all.

"Don't play smart with me, girl. From the looks of you, modesty is not at the top of your priority list," she cackles.

I should be insulted, but I'm not. In the most sly way possible, this woman called me a whore.

"So you want me to have sex with this person?" I inquire, ignoring her weak laugh. 

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking of you." She exhales once more. 

"I had no idea this wasn’t the initial plan. You made no mention of this in your ad," I add, fumbling over my words.

She looks me in the eyes and says, "If you don't have the will for it, then I'm afraid we're done here." She motions for me to stand up.

"Wait," I half-pleaded as I stood up. "Can I at the very least think about it?"

Charlotte appears irritated. Her patience is beginning to fray.

"What is there to consider? You're either in or you're out. I believe your brother doesn't have much time," she says.

I ask for a few more days to think it over, and she reluctantly agrees. I stroll across carpet contemplating my options as I open the oak door.

"Oh, and one last thing, dear," she says, turning on the charm once more. "If you agree, you must be as discreet as possible. You're not supposed to know each other's identities. That is what I expect of you."