Chapter 2

Paris

I stared up at the cracked stonework of the old apartment building, clutching the box in my hands so tightly my fingers hurt. I tried to breathe, but panic was rising in my throat like a tide. The edges of my vision started to blur. I stumbled back to my car and shoved the box into the backseat with the rest of my things while kids ran through the street nearby, screaming and laughing like the whole world was normal.

Exactly thirty days ago, I came home from my shift at the café and found my roommate Maria sitting in the living room with her impossibly greasy boyfriend.

“We should talk, Paris,” she said with that fake sweet smile she always wore. Maria was the type of person who tried very hard to seem kind and understanding, but there just wasn’t much depth behind the act. She kept chewing the same wad of gum she always had in her mouth while she looked at me with those blank eyes.

Her boyfriend was sprawled on the couch pretending to watch TV. He tried to look casual, but the smug little grin on his face gave him away.

“I think it’s time for you to move out,” Maria said. “As soon as possible.”

The boyfriend nodded along like a bobblehead.

I just stared at them. Finding that apartment had been hard enough. The thought of trying to find another place in Brooklyn that I could actually afford—and that wouldn’t require a three-hour commute to work—made my head spin.

“Why?” I blurted. “I’ve been a great roommate! I pay rent on time, I clean, I’ve never done anything to you!”

“Well,” the boyfriend said, finally chiming in, “it’s getting a little crowded with all of us here. It’s not really fair for a couple to have a roommate, is it?”

I had to physically stop myself from screaming.

“I don’t think this concerns people who don’t live in this apartment,” I snapped.

He shrugged and went back to staring at the TV.

Maria popped her gum loudly. “First of all, don’t talk to him like that. And second, this is my house. If I say you have to leave, you have to leave.”

“Maria, you can’t just kick me out! Legally you have to give me time to find another place!”

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. You get a month.”

Another pop of gum.

“But after that, you’re out. I can’t live with a roommate forever.”

That month somehow crawled and flew by at the same time. Maria and Adam—apparently that was his name; I thought it was Alan for the first two months because he mumbled everything—started their own little campaign of passive aggression.

They talked loudly when I was just out of earshot. They laughed whenever I walked into the room and then suddenly went quiet. And they had unbelievably loud sex at all hours of the night.

But I’m stubborn too.

I refused to leave early just to make them happy.

So I waited exactly thirty days. I saved every dollar I could from my waitressing shifts, but New York wasn’t exactly cooperating. Every apartment wanted background checks, credit checks, guarantors, deposits the size of a small car payment.

Things I didn’t have.

So as the deadline crept closer, I packed my life into boxes.

And just like that, at twenty-six years old, for the second time in my life, I found myself homeless.

Now I stood beside my car in the fading twilight, listening to Brooklyn go about its business. Across the street a bunch of teenage boys—who honestly looked like toddlers to me—were hanging around the bodega drinking Mexican soda out of glass bottles and laughing like idiots. A group of girls stood nearby whispering and giggling, one of them brave enough to glance at the boys.

Police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. People talked from their stoops. Cars rolled past slowly.

Three years.

That’s how long I’d been fighting to survive in New York.

“The greatest city in the world,” people loved to say.

And honestly… I didn’t disagree.

To me it meant reinvention. Escape. Freedom.

It also meant working restaurant jobs for minimum wage plus tips because I was dumb enough to move here with zero qualifications for anything better.

But it was still my city.

Even when it chewed me up and spit me out.

At least it wasn’t winter, I thought as I climbed onto the hood of my battered car. I’d named her Maximo one night after a few drinks. It felt like a classy name for a not-so-classy car.

I tried to breathe and think.

My clothes were stuffed into two suitcases. My books and random junk were packed into a couple boxes. Everything I owned in this city was now in or around my car.

Brooklyn at night wasn’t exactly friendly, so I’d tried to hide most of it out of sight.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I started over once. I can do it again.”

My head started to feel light from hunger. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch before pulling a double shift at the restaurant.

Great.

The next step after hunger was dizziness.

I slid off the hood and started walking toward the diner around the corner. It was open twenty-four hours and had the best coffee on the block—or at least the least burned.

The diner looked like every greasy spoon in New York.

Fluorescent lights. Linoleum floors. Worn booths. A counter facing the kitchen. Tired waitresses who looked just like I probably did when I worked.

I nodded at one of them and slid into a booth.

The cracked pleather seat felt weirdly comforting. When the waitress silently offered coffee, I nodded gratefully.

The place was nearly empty. An old man sat two booths away drinking coffee like he had nowhere else to be. A woman sat alone at the counter with her back to me.

I took a sip of the bitter coffee and started thinking.

Options.

I didn’t have many.

No family in the city. Barely any friends.

The waitress came back.

“What else’ll you have?” she croaked.

Suddenly I realized I was starving.

“Cheeseburger and fries,” I said.

Just then the doorbell over the diner entrance jingled.

“Hey girl, what’re you doing here this late?”

I turned around and immediately grinned.

“Angel!”

Angel slid into the booth across from me with her bag.

“How’d you know it was me?” I asked. “You could only see my back.”

“I’m amazing,” she said proudly.

Angel was one of my only real friends in New York. We both worked at the same restaurant. She had pale skin, bright peroxide hair, and the fragile look of a porcelain doll—except she was secretly strong enough to move the restaurant fridge by herself.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Maria finally kicked me out.”

Angel snorted. “I knew it. That slimy boyfriend of hers probably pushed her into it.”

“Probably.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “I could’ve helped!”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll figure it out.”

We chatted while I devoured my burger like someone who hadn’t eaten in days.

Eventually she asked the question I’d been avoiding.

“So… where are you sleeping tonight?”

I forced a casual shrug.

“Crash on a friend’s couch. No big deal.”

She studied me carefully but didn’t push.

“If that falls through,” she said softly, “you can always come to my place. I’ll shuffle my sisters around and you can take the couch.”

My chest tightened.

Angie lived in a tiny Bronx apartment with her mom and three younger sisters.

There was no way I’d ever impose like that.

We sat there talking until she eventually left for work.

After she walked out, I sat alone staring at my coffee, mentally counting the cash I’d hidden in different spots in my bags. I didn’t trust banks.

I was so lost in thought that I barely noticed someone slide into the booth across from me.

“Hi,” the stranger said brightly.

I blinked.

“Hello?”

“I’m Mary,” she said, extending her hand.

I shook it automatically while studying her. She looked… average. Brown hair, neat nails, nice purse, friendly smile.

But her eyes weren’t friendly.

They were calculating.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I crossed my arms.

“Do we know each other?”

“No,” she said cheerfully. “I just thought I’d come over and be friendly.”

“Friendly?”

“I overheard you talking to your friend earlier,” she said. “About getting kicked out of your apartment.”

My stomach tightened.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” she asked.

“That’s none of your business,” I snapped.

She raised her hands apologetically.

“I’m sorry. I just… had a feeling you weren’t telling your friend the whole truth.”

That made my skin crawl, mostly because she was right.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she dug through her purse and slid a heavy business card across the table.

I picked it up.

Mary Wilson – Masters and Brett Bio-Consultancy

“What’s bio-consultancy?” I asked.

“We help clients who require specialized medical arrangements,” she said smoothly. “And I want to offer you a job.”

I stared at her.

“A job? I only have a high school diploma.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“My clients sometimes require… surrogates.”

“You mean carrying a baby for someone?” I asked.

Her smile widened.

“Exactly.”

She explained the pay.

Two hundred and fifty dollars a day.

Housing included.

Medical expenses covered.

At the end, some clients even gave gifts.

Then she placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill in front of me.

“Just hear me out,” she said.

I stared at the money.

Then back at her.

“I want to offer you a position as a surrogate.”

I almost laughed.

“You’re insane,” I said. “You can’t just walk up to strangers and ask them to become baby factories.”

She didn’t seem offended.

“Just think about it,” she said calmly, pressing the card and the money into my hand. “G****e us. Then call me.”

And just like that, she left.

I immediately pulled out my phone.

The agency had a sleek website. Legit articles. Surrogate testimonials.

Nothing looked fake.

I sat there staring at the card in my hand.

Two hundred and fifty dollars a day.

Slowly, I started doing what I always did best.

I started thinking.