All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Surrogate : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

EMMA’S POV“I want you to stay away from the Willoughbys,” Sophia says the moment she steps into my flower shop, acting like she owns the place with that air of superiority. “But you wouldn’t listen. Just one word from my mouth and everything has changed for you.”She adds a sharp and hollow laughter.I don’t give her the satisfaction of looking up immediately. My hands keep moving, arranging fresh tulips into a porcelain vase.I sigh quietly. “Sophia, if you’re not here for flowers, I suggest you leave.”“Oh, Emma,” she says, dragging my name out like a threat. “You know this isn’t about flowers.”I look up. She’s dressed in cream silk, hair pinned high, lips painted like she’s walking into a gala, not a flower shop on a Thursday afternoon. The air around her smells expensive — perfume layered over bitterness.“I came,” she continues, walking closer, her heels making crisp sounds on the wooden floor, “to show you who the real woman in the Willoughby family is.”I pause, the stem of a

ALEXANDER’S POVThe flashing lights start before the car even halts. Cameras. Voices. Questions flung left and right like stones.“Mr. Willoughby, is it true the surrogate was your nanny?”“Is she still living with you?”“Was it love or manipulation?”I don’t say give a response to any. I push open the door with my sunglasses on. The bodyguards move first, three of them, broad-shouldered and stone-faced. They make a moving wall of muscle and black suits around me. I keep my head down as hands and microphones stretch across the barricade like vines.“Mr. Willoughby—!”“Alexander—!”I walk through the chaos, my pulse drumming hard against my throat.One of the bodyguards pushes open the gate to the mansion, and I step inside. The moment the doors close behind me, the noise cuts off like a string snapped.I smell the faint sharpness of disinfectant. Grandmother has been on one of her “cleanse the house of scandal” crusades again.And then, I hear her voice. “Alexander.”She’s standing at

EMMA’S POVThe morning is unusually quiet for a weekday. I stand behind the counter, hunched slightly over my notepad, trying to put down the right words for a bouquet request. My pen keeps dragging across the paper because my mind wanders far too often.There are no cameras outside. No voices. No people pretending to look at flowers only to shove a microphone near my face. It feels pleasant, but strange.I inhale the scent of fresh lilies and the faint aroma of peach tea I made earlier.John is arranging roses, humming a tune that does not match his steps. He’s always been a little clumsy with rhythms, but I find comfort in that.Just as I finish rewriting a sentence for the third time, he walks towards me in quick steps. He rarely walks like that unless something has startled him.“Miss Emma,” he says, stopping right in front of me.I look up and see the worry in his eyes. Or maybe it is excitement. I cannot tell yet. He does not speak. Instead, he lifts his phone and places it on t

ALEXANDER’S POVThe call comes earlier than expected.I’m still in my room, the aftermath of yesterday’s argument with Grandmother sitting heavy on my shoulders. I haven’t slept more than two hours.My phone rings again.I reach for it, half-dreading and half-bracing.“Mr. Willoughby?” a woman’s voice says.“Yes.”“It’s St. Raphael’s Hospital. Your grandfather— he’s awake. Stable. He’s asking for you.”For two seconds, everything stops.The room. My breathing. The leftover sting of Grandmother’s insults.He’s awake.“Thank you,” I say, voice thin. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”I hang up, grab my jacket, and head out.The hallways are too quiet. The staff move softly, like they’re afraid to stir the ghosts of every Willoughby scandal drifting through the walls.Outside, the fresh air from the early hours hits me.My three bodyguards, usually close, step back when they see my face. They understand this isn’t business.The driver opens the door. I slide in.The car rolls out of the

EMMA’S POVI dress without ceremony.Jeans, a soft shirt and nothing dramatic. My hair goes into a rough bun that refuses to be neat no matter how many times I twist it. I don’t try again as I’m not going to impress anyone today.I put the cheque and keep it folded in my bag.I lock the door behind me and pause, just for a second, a part of me contemplating and thinking of how this would go.I take a deep breath and I walk to the car.I have thought this through. Over and over. Through the night. Through the morning.I am going to see her.The drive to the Willoughby mansion feels longer than usual. Or maybe I am slower. Maybe I am noticing things I didn’t before; the clean stretch of road, the trees lining the gates, the way wealth announces itself before you arrive.The gates open.I park and step out.The staff nods without a smile as I go in. I am led into the sitting room without being cheerfully greeted as the nanny, as if my presence as someone else is already expected.I take