The Surrogate Virgin

The waiting room smelled like lavender and cold money.

I sat with my knees pressed together, spine straight, trying not to wrinkle the secondhand blazer I’d borrowed from my mother’s wardrobe. The fabric itched around my neck, but I didn’t move. Everything in me screamed to get up and walk out. I didn’t belong here. I wasn’t one of the polished women who sat in this kind of silence, the kind that cost thousands to maintain but I wasn’t here for comfort.

I was here to sell something no one could see on the outside.

My womb.

“Miss Grace Carter?”

I jerked my head up. A young woman in tailored heels and glass-cut cheekbones smiled down at me like I was her 11 a.m. coffee break.

“Yes,” I said, rising too quickly. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, smoothed my skirt, and tried again. “That’s me.”

She gave a gentle nod and motioned for me to follow. “He’s ready for you.”

I followed her down a corridor that was too quiet and too clean. The clean that made you feel dirty just for existing. At the end of the hallway, she opened a door without knocking and stepped aside.

And there he was.

Noah Bennett.

He sat behind a sleek walnut desk, flipping through a folder like a man used to making decisions that reshaped people’s lives. His skin was the color of polished bronze under soft lighting, and his beard was trimmed like he’d just stepped off a luxury magazine cover. Everything about him whispered power and Control.

And he looked up like he already knew everything about me.

“Grace Carter,” he said, before I could open my mouth.

I blinked, my throat suddenly dry. “Yes, sir.”

He tapped the folder in front of him. “You’ve read the terms of the contract?”

“Yes,” I lied. I’d skimmed and panicked but I needed this too much to hesitate.

He pushed the papers toward me. “I want you to reread them carefully, take your time. You don’t sign out of desperation you sign out of clarity.”

The room was silent, save for the sound of my heartbeat. I reached for the pen with trembling fingers.

Then paused.

“There’s one thing I didn’t understand,” I said, eyes locked on the fine print. “This says… you’re using my egg?”

He looked up slowly, his gaze unreadable. “Correct.”

“So… the baby would be biologically mine and yours?”

“Yes.”

I swallowed. My mind whirled. I’d expected to be a surrogate, not… a mother. But then my father’s face flashed in my mind pale, fragile, gasping through machines in that hospital bed. This was for him.

I signed.

He stood and extended his hand. “You’ll come tomorrow morning for the implantation.”

I shook it. His palm was warm, firm. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “Nine sharp.”

The next morning, I dressed in silence. Every movement felt heavy, like my body already knew I was about to cross a line I could never uncross.

At the clinic, Noah was already waiting.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

I nodded.

The nurse led me into the back room. The lights were bright. The gown was thin. I lay back on the table, staring at the ceiling like it could give me courage.

Then the nurse paused, her eyes flicking from my chart to my face.

“You’re a virgin?” she asked, confused.

Noah stiffened beside me.

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

The nurse looked between us, suddenly hesitant. “This procedure can be uncomfortable for someone without previous…”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, voice stronger than I felt.

Noah looked down at me. “You don’t have to go through with this, Grace. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to.”

And I did because this was more than a transaction, It was survival.

The procedure was quick but invasive. I clenched my fists, jaw tight, as the cold instruments touched parts of me no one ever had. Noah stayed by my side the entire time, silent, steady. I felt his hand around mine. His grip was warm, grounding. I didn’t expect that from a man like him.

When it was over, he stepped outside and returned a moment later with a sealed envelope.

“$200,000,” he said, holding it out to me.

I took it with both hands, eyes glassy. “Thank you. This means… everything.”

He studied me. “Where should I drop you off?”

My head snapped up. “Sorry?”

“I’ll drive you.”

It took me a second to register that it wasn’t a question.

“My dorm,” I said. “Texas Southern University. The main campus.”

His eyes flickered. “You’re a student?”

“Yes,” I said. “Final year. I study at the College of Arts.”

We rode in silence after that, but something shifted. His hands tightened slightly on the wheel. His jaw set.

When we pulled up in front of my dorm, he didn’t say anything at first.

Then he spoke, his voice low.

“Grace.”

I turned to face him.

“I teach at Texas Southern.”

I blinked.

He stared straight ahead, like the road made more sense than I did.

“I’m your professor.”