A Billionaire's Surrogacy Deal

I never thought desperation could taste so bitter.

It started with my father slamming his phone on the table, his face pale, mouth trembling. "They froze our accounts," he said. "Everything's gone."

Gone.

The word echoed in my ears like a death sentence. Our family business-my father's pride, my mother's legacy, and the only stability I'd ever known-was on the edge of collapsing. Creditors were already circling like vultures.

And I-nineteen, broke, and terrified-was supposed to save us.

My mother clutched my hand with tears in her eyes. "Anastasia, we can't lose the house. Please... help your father."

Help him? How? I worked part-time at a library and barely made enough for lunch. But the look in my mother's eyes broke me. The way she said it, like I was her last hope.

So, I did what desperate girls do.

I searched for a miracle.

And I found it-no, I stumbled into it-by overhearing a conversation I wasn't meant to hear.

At a nearby café, two girls were whispering across from me, not even bothering to lower their voices. One of them said, "You didn't hear? The Winston family is looking for a surrogate. They're offering millions."

"Not just any surrogate," the other girl whispered. "It's like an auction. You go in, sign your life away, and if you're chosen, you get the money. No marriage. Just a baby. Easy."

A chill ran through me.

The Winston.

Everyone knew the name. Old money. Power. The kind of people who lived in glass towers and thought the rest of us were ants. And they were looking for someone to give them an heir?

It sounded insane. And yet... perfect.

I barely slept that night. I couldn't stop thinking about it. The money. My parents' faces. The bills stacked in my drawer. My little brother who still believed in Santa. The pressure sat on my chest like an anvil.

Would I be willing to sell my body to save my family?

I already knew the answer. I'd known it since the moment my father's voice cracked in front of me.

The next morning, I found the address online. It was vague, of course-intentionally mysterious. An anonymous invite-only auction held in one of Winston's private mansions.

They called it "The Selection," like it was some royal ceremony and not the most expensive transaction of someone's life.

Still, I went.

The moment I arrived, I realized I was nowhere near ready.

Luxury cars lined the driveway-sleek, black, silent. Security guards in black suits flanked the gates, earpieces in place, faces blank.

I was ushered in with a group of girls, most of them older, all of them stunning. Tight dresses, high heels, full makeup, confident smiles. Meanwhile, I wore a cheap dress from last season and tried to hide the scuff on my only pair of flats.

I didn't belong here. That much was obvious.

"Name?" one of the guards asked at the door.

"Anastasia Beverly," I answered, barely keeping my voice steady.

He checked a list, nodded, and gestured for me to enter.

The mansion swallowed me whole.

It was bigger than anything I'd ever seen. Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. Chandeliers dripping with crystals. Gilded mirrors, velvet drapes, and flower arrangements that probably cost more than my rent. Every corner screamed money.

But underneath the shine, it felt cold. Lifeless. Like a beautiful cage.

Girls were ushered one by one into a smaller lounge where they were examined-yes, examined-by a panel of stern-looking people, mostly older women and one man who I assumed was the family doctor.

I was number 17.

They handed me a slip of paper with my number and asked me to wait. I sat on a velvet sofa, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers trembled in my lap. I tried to steady my breathing.

What if I messed up? What if they didn't pick me?

But that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was realizing that I wanted to be picked.

I needed to be picked.

When it was my turn, I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. The room was colder than the rest of the house, the air sharp with perfume and judgment.

"Name?" the woman at the head of the room asked.

"Anastasia Beverly."

"Hm. Age?" She further asked.

"Nineteen."

They asked me to walk. Smile. Speak. One of them even asked if I had ever been pregnant. I said no, cheeks burning.

They scribbled notes like I was a product on display.

Then they dismissed me.

A woman with a clipboard guided me down a long corridor and into a different lounge where the other "finalists" sat. All of us were dressed in white now-identical silky gowns that reached just below the knees. It felt ceremonial. Or sacrificial. My hands kept twitching.

I counted twelve other girls. All beautiful. All silent. Tension hung in the air like fog.

And then the doors opened-and the air changed.

Every single girl sat up straighter. Conversations died mid-sentence. My spine stiffened instinctively.

Because he walked in. Vincenzo Winston.

The man I'd only seen on the news. Tabloids. The internet. And even there, he looked unreal. But in person?

God help me.

He was devastating.

Tall, lean, dark curls that looked almost too perfect. Piercing grey eyes that scanned the room like a wolf choosing its next meal. A tailored suit hugged his broad frame like it was stitched directly onto him. His expression was blank-but somehow still lethal.

Power clung to him like cologne. He didn't have to say a word. His presence filled the entire room.

My breath caught in my throat.

He stood in front of us and said nothing.

Not a word.

He only walked. One slow, deliberate step at a time, circling the room, studying us like we were cattle. My palms were sweating. My heart thumped so loud I was sure he could hear it.

He passed girl after girl, pausing sometimes, giving some a longer glance. Some girls straightened their shoulders, others batted their lashes or tilted their heads subtly.

My eyes stayed on the floor.

I told myself I didn't care. That I wouldn't be heartbroken if he walked right past me.

But I was lying.

And then... he stopped in front of me.

I froze.

His polished shoes gleamed beneath the lights. I forced myself to look up.

And there they were-those grey eyes. Cold. Sharp. Searching.

Our eyes locked-and something flickered in his gaze.

His gaze dropped briefly to the number pinned to my dress. Seventeen.

Silence stretched out like a rubber band about to snap.

He turned to the coordinator, voice low but cutting through the air like a blade.

"This one."

I blinked. What?

He didn't wait for a response. He turned his back like it was already done.

The coordinator scrambled after him. "Mr. Winston-just her? Are you sure?"

He didn't even glance back. "I said what I said."

I sat there, stunned, unable to move, as the other girls turned to stare at me with wide eyes-and cold hatred.

Whispers rippled through the room.

I felt the heat of their jealousy crawl across my skin like fire.

But I didn't care.

Because he picked me.

Me.

And I had no idea why.

"Am I safe?"

They didn't let me speak.

The moment Vincenzo Winston said, "I choose her," two men in black suits appeared at my sides. Not aggressively-but firmly, like I had no choice but to obey.

And the truth? I didn't.

I followed them out of the auction room on trembling legs, conscious of every burning stare from the girls behind me. One hissed under her breath, "She doesn't even belong here." Another said, "He must be blind."

Their words stung, but nothing hurt more than the realization that I agreed with them. I didn't belong. I wasn't glamorous or rich or mysterious. I was just Anastasia Beverly-broke, terrified, and very much out of place.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because Vincenzo had picked me.

The guards led me through a long marble hallway that twisted deeper into the mansion. I tried to memorize the path in case I needed to run, but everything looked the same-rich and cold. Gold accents. Tall arched doors. Polished floors that reflected my pale face like a haunted ghost.

We stopped in front of a tall double door. One of the men knocked once, then pushed it open.

"In," he said simply.

I stepped inside.

It wasn't what I expected.

The room was quiet. Warm. There was a fire flickering in a hearth, and thick velvet curtains drawn shut. A large desk stood near the center with documents neatly arranged on it. And behind it...

Him.

Vincenzo Winston.

He sat casually in a leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass in his hand. He didn't look up immediately. Just swirled the dark amber liquid like he was thinking.

My heart beating so hard I thought I might faint.

Then, without looking, he said, "Sit."

There was only one chair in front of the desk. I obeyed.

Up close, he was even more intimidating. That sharp jaw. The cold steel in his eyes. The calmness that felt more dangerous than rage.

Finally, he looked at me. Studied me like he was trying to figure out what I was made of.

"You don't look like the others."

I swallowed. "I... didn't know there was a dress code."

One of his eyebrows twitched-amusement? Maybe. Maybe not.

"You're nineteen."

"Yes."

"No prior pregnancies?"

"No."

"Clean medical history?"

"Yes."

He nodded once, like I was a box he was checking off. Then he gestured to the papers in front of him.

"This is the contract. Read it."

My hands trembled as I picked it up. The paper was thick and smooth, the ink so rich it looked wet. The title alone made my throat close up:

"Exclusive Surrogacy and Confidential Arrangement Agreement."

I skimmed it quickly, eyes racing over the words. The terms were... terrifying.

• I would live on Winston property for the duration of the pregnancy.

• I would not be allowed contact with the media or any outside parties.

• I would submit to regular medical examinations and psychological evaluations.

• I would receive a total of five million dollars, paid in installments after each trimester and the final delivery.

• I would waive all maternal rights and agree never to contact the child.

• I would never speak about this agreement, under penalty of legal and financial retribution.

At the bottom, there was a blank space for my name. And Vincenzo's signature was already there-elegant, sharp strokes like he carved it instead of writing it.

"You will be compensated generously," he said. "But there is no room for error. You'll carry the Winston heir. Do you understand what that means?"

I nodded slowly. "You want an heir, not a scandal."

He tilted his head slightly. "Clever."

Silence stretched between us. The fire cracked. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed once.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Why did you come?"

I blinked. "What?"

"You're not like the others. You didn't come for fame. You didn't even try to catch my attention. So why are you here?"

I hesitated. My throat was dry. The lie was right there-I could say I wanted adventure, a new life, a way out. But I didn't.

"My family's broke," I said quietly. "My father's business collapsed. My mother's terrified we'll lose everything. I don't want to do this. But I have to."

He studied me again. Longer this time. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

Then he said, "Good."

I blinked. "Good?"

"I don't want someone desperate for my name. I want someone desperate enough to keep her mouth shut."

Charming.

He stood and walked to the bar near the window, pouring himself another drink. "You'll be moved to the Winston estate by morning. A doctor will examine you within the next twenty-four hours. If you pass the tests, the procedure begins next week."

I stared at him. "Just like that?"

"Yes."

"What if I change my mind?"

He turned, those eyes locking onto mine with deadly calm. "Then your family loses everything. And you'll face breach of contract."

I shivered.

He took a sip of his drink, like we were discussing the weather. "Do you want the money or not?"

I clenched my hands in my lap.

No. I didn't want it like this. But I needed it.

"For my family," I whispered. "Yes."

He walked past me, heading toward the door.

As he opened it, he paused. "You can leave now. Someone will bring your things to the estate tomorrow."

I stood up slowly. My knees were shaking.

The door clicked shut behind me.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Back at our tiny apartment, my mother clung to me like I'd just returned from war. "Did you get the job? Is it real?" she asked over and over.

I lied.

Sort of.

"I did something," I told her softly. "We won't lose the house."

She cried then. Hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. My father didn't say much-just looked at me with that broken pride in his eyes.

They didn't ask what I did. Maybe they didn't want to know.

Or maybe... they already guessed.

I stared at the ceiling for hours. My mind kept playing that moment over and over. Vincenzo choosing me. Signing the contract. The heavy silence in his eyes. The way he didn't smile. Didn't joke.

He was like other rich men.

He wasn't kind. Or warm. Or even human, sometimes.

But he had picked me.

Just long enough to bring his heir into the world.

"Would I be treated well at the Vincenzo Estate?"

Anastasia point of view

The night air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed against your skin like velvet-and suffocated you if you let it.

I couldn't sleep.

Not that I expected to. The Winston estate was bigger than anything I'd ever seen, but the room I was assigned still felt like a cage. A gilded, expensive cage-but a cage nonetheless.

I paced barefoot across the cold marble floor, dressed in a silk robe they'd laid out for me. My thoughts swirled too fast to hold onto. Everything about the last twenty-four hours felt like a hallucination.

I signed a contract.

I agreed to carry a billionaire's child.

I agreed to never speak about it again.

And tonight... he would come for what he paid for.

The knock came just after midnight. No warning. No lead-up.

Just three soft, deliberate knocks.

My body stilled.

I opened the door slowly, already knowing who stood behind it.

Vincenzo.

Tall. Calm. Controlled. Like always. Except... something in his eyes was different tonight. He didn't speak, but the look he gave me was clear enough.

He walked inside without invitation, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed louder than I liked.

"You knew this was coming," he said simply.

I nodded once, arms still crossed tightly over my chest. "I read the contract."

He stared at me. "And you're not going to fight it?"

"I need the money."

He took a slow step forward. "You're not afraid?"

"I've been afraid for months," I replied. "This isn't the scary part. This is the price."

His lips twitched slightly, almost like a smile-but it never formed.

He reached for the belt of my robe, tugging gently. I didn't stop him. My body stiffened as the robe slid open, silk falling off my shoulders.

His eyes dropped to my skin. His hand reached out to touch me.

Then he stopped. Completely.

I looked down, following his gaze. His hand hovered inches from my left shoulder.

He didn't blink.

He stepped closer, brows drawing together, and gently brushed his thumb over the pale mark just below my collarbone.

"The scar," he murmured.

I blinked, startled. "What about it?"

His voice dropped to a whisper, like he was speaking to himself more than me. "It's exactly the same."

I frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He said nothing for a beat. Then, as if he couldn't hold it back anymore, he stepped back, unbuttoned his shirt, and turned around.

There it was.

A scar. A long one, jagged and deep, trailing across his back.

I stared.

"I was nine," he said slowly. "There was a fire at the orphanage. You were trapped under a burning beam. I pulled you out. A piece of the ceiling hit my back. Another struck your shoulder."

He turned back to me. His eyes burned with something I couldn't name.

"I carried you outside. You wouldn't let go of a little stuffed rabbit. You called it Lemon."

My stomach twisted, but I forced my expression to stay neutral.

I shook my head. "You've got the wrong girl."

"You had pigtails. You followed me everywhere. You used to make me promise to never leave you behind."

I looked away. "I don't remember any of that."

"You called me Firo," he added. "You said 'Vincenzo' was too hard to say."

"That's nice," I muttered flatly.

He flinched slightly, as if expecting more. But I didn't give it to him.

I kept my voice cool. "I had an accident when I was seven. I don't remember anything before that. Childhood, orphanage-none of it. Just a scar I've always had and no explanation for it."

He stared at me like he was trying to pull the memories out of my skull with his eyes.

But I was blank. I felt nothing.

"I don't know you," I said finally. "And whatever story you're telling yourself doesn't change anything."

His jaw tensed. "You don't feel anything? Nothing at all?"

I shrugged. "What am I supposed to feel? Grateful? Guilty? Sorry you can't have your emotional reunion?"

Silence.

I turned away from him. "Look, I didn't sign up for a love story. I signed a contract. The deal was clear. One night, half the money. A baby, the rest."

I turned back to face him. "You want the heir, right? Let's not complicate things."

He stared at me, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes.

Then he moved.

Without another word, he crossed the room and kissed me.

Hard.

It wasn't gentle. Or tender. It wasn't meant to be. It was possessive. Raw. Like he was staking a claim.

I didn't stop him.

Because this was part of the price. One night. That's all it was supposed to be.

His hands slid down my back, pulling me against him as his mouth moved over mine. I let him. My brain shut off. My body took over. I let him lay me on the bed, silk sheets cool against my skin.

His fingers trailed along my waist, my thigh, my scar. He kept looking at it.

Kept touching it.

Like it haunted him.

Like it anchored him.

I didn't ask why.

I didn't want to know.

Because I couldn't afford to care. All I need is the half payment and I'm out of here.

He kissed down my neck, my shoulder, my chest-and finally moved over me like he was sealing a fate that had been years in the making.

And even as he whispered my name like a prayer, like a curse-

I didn't say a word.

When it was over, I turned away from him. My fingers clutched the blanket. I stared at the wall.

He sat up beside me, breathing rough. But his hand reached out again. Not for my body. For the scar.

He touched it like it was sacred.

"I swore I'd find you," he said quietly.

I didn't respond.

"I swore I'd never let you go again."

Still silent.

"I don't care if you don't remember. I'll make you remember."

That's when I turned my head to look at him, my eyes flat. "You can try."

He didn't speak again.

He rose, dressed without another glance at me, and walked to the door.

At the threshold, my next words made him pause.

"Do well to have my half payment processed in the morning."

Without any response, the door clicked shut behind him.

I lay in the dark, breathing hard.

I knew something had changed in him.

And if I was smart, I'd find a way to get my payment and escape before it got worse.

"Would he give me the payment after not remembering him?"