POV Norah
I can kiss my job at Crawford & Associates goodbye.
The thought hit me like a punch to the ribs as I stormed out of the glass-walled conference room, my heels slamming the marble floor like they were trying to leave dents.
I wasn’t even looking where I was going when I turned the corner and—bam—my shoulder collided with someone solid.
Solid, expensive-suit, six-foot-four solid.
The files in his hand tilted dangerously, but of course Xander Crawford didn’t stumble. He just steadied the stack with one sharp flick of his wrist, his eyes—those cold, blue eyes—locking on mine.
“Careful, intern,” he said, voice maddeningly calm.
“I—” My throat went dry. “Sorry.”
I moved to step around him, but his gaze didn’t shift. It stayed fixed on me, like he was trying to read what had me charging through the hallway like my life depended on it.
“Running out on the job already?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that was not quite a smile.
My grip on my tote tightened until my knuckles ached. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
“More important than your career?”
“Yes,” I said before I could stop myself, the word sharper than I meant it.
For a moment, there was only the faint hum of the air conditioning between us.
Then, without another word, I stepped around him and pushed through the revolving doors, the glass catching the reflection of his unreadable expression as I left.
The cab ride to Mount Sinai Hospital passed in fragments—honking horns that made me flinch, red lights that stretched forever, my phone buzzing with messages I couldn't bring myself to check.
The city rushed past the window in a blur of glass and concrete, indifferent to the fact that my world was crumbling.
My head was already filled with the sound of the nurse’s voice from earlier, telling me Mom had “taken a turn.”
By the time I reached the fourth floor, my chest was tight enough to crack.
The familiar antiseptic smell hit me first, followed by the oppressive weight of hushed conversations and mechanical beeping that meant someone's life hung in the balance.
Dad was exactly where I knew he'd be—standing guard outside Mom's room like he could protect her from whatever was happening inside her body through sheer willpower.
His construction company t-shirt was dusty, telling me he'd come straight from a job site. When he saw me, his shoulders sagged with relief and exhaustion in equal measure.
"She's stable now," he said immediately, pulling me into a hug that smelled like sawdust and Old Spice. "But Norah... the cardiologist was just here. The blockage is worse than they thought. Without the surgery..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
“They’re talking about an experimental treatment,” he said quietly, like the walls might carry the words straight to her. “It could save her… but you know what they said about the cost.”
My throat tightened. Of course I knew. I’d been carrying that number around like a lead weight since he’d told me—an impossible figure that sat in the back of my mind, pressing on every breath.
Through the small window, I could see Mom propped against the hospital pillows.
An oxygen cannula under her nose, her skin pale against the stark white sheets. She looked smaller than I remembered. Frailer in a way that made my chest ache.
This was the woman who'd worked double shifts to help pay for my college textbooks, who'd stayed up all night when I had the flu in high school, who'd cheered the loudest at my graduation.
"I'll figure something out," I said, the words automatic even though I had no idea how to make them true.
I stayed with her for two hours, holding her hand while she drifted in and out of sleep, telling her about my first day at Crawford & Associates—editing out the shirtless CEO encounter and the dramatic exit.
She smiled weakly when I described the fancy offices, squeezing my fingers when I promised everything would be okay.
When she finally fell into a deeper sleep, I retreated to the family lounge down the hall. I pulled out my laptop, the screen brightness making me squint in the dim room.
Bank loans were my first shot.
I filled out application after application until the numbers blurred, until I was typing my Social Security number like it was muscle memory.
Every response came back faster than the last—rejected.
No collateral. Not enough credit history.
Selling plasma would get me three hundred dollars. I even looked into clinical trials, finding one that paid five thousand for testing a new antidepressant. Side effects include nausea, dizziness, and "mood alterations."
Five thousand dollars to potentially lose my mind seemed like a bad trade, but I bookmarked it anyway.
Modeling gigs—questionable listings with vague promises of “exclusive shoots” and “fast payouts.” The pay wouldn’t even cover a month’s rent, let alone what Mom needed.
Eggs donation came next.
I found an agency in Brooklyn offering $8,000 for “premium donors.”
Eight thousand. I stared at the number, willing it to grow, willing it to somehow multiply by twenty in the next five seconds.
It didn’t.
Every search ended the same way: slammed into a wall, options shrinking, time running out. And with every dead end, that number in my head felt heavier.
I was halfway through yet another round of useless searches when my eyes caught on something I wasn’t looking for.
It wasn’t on a job board or some desperate “quick cash” site—it was on Facebook, tucked between an engagement announcement from a girl I went to high school with and a sponsored post for some overpriced skincare.
The ad appeared in the sidebar, elegant and understated: "The Paragon Family Agency – Exceptional Surrogacy Opportunities."
My finger hovered over the link. I told myself I was just curious, that I needed to explore every option, no matter how extreme.
The website that loaded was pristine—all soft colors and professional photos, nothing like the sketchy ads I'd been desperately clicking through.
Then a single line that stopped me cold: $200,000 for the right candidate.
My heart stopped, then started again, pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The requirements were listed in simple bullet points:
- Preferably a virgin.
- High IQ (must provide transcripts).
- Perfect health (full medical screening required).
- No prior pregnancies.
- Age 21–25.
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I sat back in the stiff lounge chair, staring at the list.
I qualified. For every single one.
I told myself I was just curious. That I just wanted to see what it involved. But my cursor hovered over the “Apply for Consultation” button like it was the last lifeline in the world.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Enough for Mom’s treatment. Enough for her recovery. Enough to keep the bills paid while she healed. The image of her face—pale, exhausted, struggling for each breath—flashed in my mind, and my throat closed up.
This wasn’t a choice anymore.