CHAPTER 2:THE DECISION

It happened on a Wednesday, one of those gray, cold afternoons where the world seemed as exhausted as I felt. I had just finished a grueling day at school, my backpack heavy with textbooks and the weight of everything else on my shoulders, as i headed to work from school. The only thing keeping me going was the thought of seeing Mom, her frail smile waiting for me. After work hours had ended that night, I quickly rushed home to meet mom.

But when I opened the door to our apartment, the sight that greeted me stopped me cold. Mom was slumped on the floor, her breathing shallow, her face pale and slick with sweat.

“Mom!” I cried, dropping my bag and rushing to her side. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t respond. My hands trembled as I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

The paramedics arrived quickly, their faces calm but focused as they loaded Mom onto a stretcher. I followed the ambulance in a haze, my mind racing with fear and guilt. I should have been there. I should have noticed something was wrong.

At the hospital, the doctors rushed her into the emergency room, leaving me to pace the waiting area with my heart pounding in my chest. Minutes felt like hours before a stern-looking doctor approached me, a clipboard in hand.

“Ms. Evans?” he asked, glancing at me over his glass

“Yes, that’s me. How is she?”

“Let's talk in my office. He said walking towards the office as I followed behind.

" She’s stable for now, but we need to run more tests and start treatment immediately. The cancer has really eaten deeply into her cells and if nothing's done within a month, am sorry, we'll lose her.” He paused, his expression hardening. “However, we’ll need a deposit before we proceed further.”

My stomach dropped. “How much?”

“$5,000 for the initial treatment.”

The air seemed to leave the room. I barely had $50 to my name, let alone $5,000. I tried to explain, to plead, but the doctor’s face remained impassive.

“I’m sorry, but hospital policy is clear. Without payment, we can only provide minimal care.”

I stumbled out of his office, my chest tight and my vision blurred with tears. I sat down in the waiting area, gripping my phone like it might offer me an answer. But there were no miracles, no sudden solutions.

That’s when I remembered Tom’s words. Gerald Thompson. The billionaire looking for a surrogate. The thought of carrying someone else’s child had felt unthinkable just days ago. But now, with Mom’s life hanging in the balance, unthinkable was starting to look like my only option.

I pulled out my phone and searched for his name. The first result was an agency facilitating surrogacies for high-profile clients. My heart skipped when I saw hundreds of submissions and there, I made a quick prayer —a quick one that mine will be selected. My hands shook as I clicked the link and filled out the application.

When I hit “submit,” a mix of fear and relief washed over me. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but I knew one thing: I’d do anything to save my mom. Even if it meant changing my life forever. Two days after I submitted my application, I received an email from the Gerald's consultant on the surrogacy confirming I was the selected one for the surrogacy. I felt relieved and a bit tensed too.

The day of the IVF procedure came faster than I expected. Despite everything—my mom’s deteriorating condition, the crushing weight of uncertainty—I felt a strange sense of relief. This wasn’t something messy or degrading. It was medical, professional, and straightforward.

The fertility clinic was nothing like I imagined. It wasn’t sterile or cold but sleek and luxurious, reflecting the wealth of its clients. A calm, confident woman named Dr. Evelyn Hart introduced herself as Gerald Thompson’s personal consultant. She explained the process step by step, her voice steady and reassuring.

“Everything has been prepared in advance,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “The embryo has been created using Mr. Thompson’s genetic material and a donor egg. Your role, Miss Evans, is to carry the pregnancy.”

Her words gave me a sense of detachment from the situation, which I appreciated. This wasn’t about me or my feelings. It was a transaction, plain and simple. I nodded, trying to focus on the logistics and not the overwhelming weight of what this meant.

The procedure itself was quick and painless, just like Dr. Hart had promised. I left the clinic that day with a strange mix of hope and apprehension. If this worked, it would be the solution to all my problems. I could save my mom, pay off my dad's debts, and maybe even start over.

The weeks that followed were surreal. Dr. Hart checked in regularly, monitoring my progress and ensuring I followed strict guidelines for my health. Gerald Thompson, however, remained an enigma. I hadn’t met him, hadn’t spoken to him, and only knew him through the glimpses of his life in the media—a young billionaire, wildly successful, and notoriously private.

It was strange to think that I was carrying the child of a man I’d never even seen in person. But I didn’t let myself dwell on it. This wasn’t about him or me. It was about the money, the chance to give my mom the care she needed and to escape the life I’d been stuck in for so long.

A few weeks later, during a routine checkup, Dr. Hart confirmed what I’d been waiting to hear.

“Congratulations, Kayla,” she said, her smile warm and professional. “You’re pregnant.”

I stared at her, a mix of disbelief and relief washing over me. It had worked.

As I left the clinic that day, my hand instinctively resting on my stomach, I couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of something else—something I hadn’t expected. Responsibility. This wasn’t just a business arrangement anymore. It was real, and it was happening.

I didn’t know what the future held, but one thing was certain: my life had changed forever.