POV Xander
The woman across from me was smiling too much.
Too wide. Too knowing.
“I think,” she purred, crossing one leg over the other like she’d practiced it in a mirror, “we’d make beautiful children together, Mr. Crawford. Strong jawlines run in both our families.”
I closed her file without another word. “Next.”
“Xander,” Karen, my assigned coordinator for this circus, sighed as she gathered the glossy folder from my hands. “That’s the eleventh one today.”
“They’re all not right,” I said flatly.
“They’re all healthy, smart enough, and willing to sign their lives away for nine months. What exactly are you looking for?”
I leaned back in the plush leather chair, eyes fixed on the skyline framed by the clinic’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Someone who isn’t thinking about how to turn my last name into hers.”
Karen gave a little laugh, the kind people make when they think you’re being too dramatic. “So… someone who doesn’t know you’re Xander Crawford?”
“That would be ideal,” I muttered.
“Too bad that’s impossible,” she said, sliding the next file across the desk. “Your grandmother’s money bought half this city. People know you.”
My jaw tightened.
Produce an heir by thirty, or everything goes to your brother.
Her words never left my head for long. After Alaina, I'd sworn off any kind of relationships entirely, but I wanted my company.
And if hiring a surrogate was the price to keep it out of Chris's hands, I'd pay it.
Karen opened the next folder and tapped the profile picture. “Candidate Twelve.”
I glanced down and stilled.
Familiar hazel eyes stared back at me from the page.
Sharp intelligence in them, even in a still photo. The background information was thorough: age twenty-two, law school intern, top of her class, perfect health, no prior pregnancies, high IQ scores.
Virgin.
“Norah Mason,” I read aloud, my voice lower than I intended.
Karen blinked. “You know her?”
“She’s my intern,” I said.
There was a pause. Then, “Well. That’s… awkward.”
I flipped through the pages again, my fingers slower this time.
Brilliant. Controlled under pressure. And, most importantly, not the type to chase my bank account. I’d seen it in the way she worked, the way she carried herself in meetings.
“She’s the one,” I said finally.
Karen’s brows rose. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Invite her in.”
She walked in ten minutes later, clutching her tote like it was a riot shield. When her eyes found me, they went wide, and for a split second, she looked exactly the way she had the first time she stumbled into my office by accident.
Fresh out of breath, a little flustered, cheeks warm, as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
That memory had stuck with me far longer than it should have.
She’d been mortified, standing there in the executive elevator’s top-floor suite, confronted with me halfway through changing after my morning run. Most interns would have babbled apologies or tried to impress me with some over-rehearsed line.
She’d just stammered about the maintenance guy holding the door and glared at me like it was my fault for being shirtless in my own office.
I’d thought it was… cute. And memorable.
Now, that same spark was in her eyes—mixed with confusion and just enough stubbornness to keep me interested.
“Mr. Crawford?” she said slowly, like maybe she was hoping it was an uncanny lookalike instead of her CEO.
I stood. “Norah. Please, sit.”
Her steps were measured, hesitant. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way it did in meetings when she was holding back from correcting a partner’s logic.
“I think there’s been a mistake. I’m here for a consultation—”
“And I’m here to approve the candidate,” I said smoothly, letting the words sink in. “The candidate being you.”
Her brows drew together sharply. “You… you’re the client?”
“That’s right.”
She sat, but it was less a decision and more a collapse, her tote still anchored in her lap as if I might try to snatch it.
“This is insane. You’re my boss.”
“And?” I asked, genuinely curious where she thought this argument would lead.
“And,” she gestured between us like the concept was self-explanatory, “this is wildly inappropriate.”
I allowed myself a faint smirk.
“There’s nothing inappropriate about it. You won’t be impregnated naturally, so nothing will happen between us beyond a contract.”
Her mouth parted, her expression incredulous. “Wow. That’s… romantic.”
“I’m not offering romance, Miss Mason,” I said evenly. “I’m offering a mutually beneficial arrangement. You need the money. I need someone intelligent and capable enough to carry my child without complicating my life.”
She gave a short, sharp laugh. “You make it sound like you’re hiring someone to water your plants while you’re away.”
“I’m hiring someone I can trust not to turn a business agreement into a soap opera,” I countered, holding her gaze.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt heavier, charged. She had that look again—the same one she’d had in my office that morning—half defiance, half the urge to run.
Then she shook her head, stood abruptly, and said, “I can’t do this.”
I watched her leave, her spine straight, her steps clipped.
Most candidates signed without hesitation, seduced by the number on the contract or by the idea of being connected to me.
Norah wasn’t most candidates.
I half expected her to vanish into the city and never come back. But a part of me hoped she wouldn’t.
Ten minutes later, she returned. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a little mussed from the wind, and she didn’t bother sitting before she spoke.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Well…” My one brow lifted. “That was fast.”
“On conditions,” she continued, ignoring the jab. “The check is given upfront. No romantic involvement. Artificial insemination only.”
I inclined my head. “Done.”
“And,” she added sharply, her eyes locking on mine, “I keep my independence. I’m not suddenly your… property.”
“Agreed.” I slid the contract toward her. “But you can’t be in a relationship until after the birth. My child won’t be part of some third-party drama.”
She nodded once, then drew a breath. “And one more thing.”
I leaned back, studying her. “Go on.”
“I’ll lose almost a year to this,” she said, her voice steady, determined. “So when it’s over, I want a permanent position at the firm. No scrambling for internships, no hoping to get noticed. A real job. A career. I want it guaranteed—in writing.”
For the first time, I was silent. Not because it was unreasonable, but because it was… impressive.
She wasn’t just bargaining for money. She was staking her future, fighting for something lasting.
Finally, I gave a slow nod. “Done.”
She hesitated only a moment before picking up the pen. “Fine.”
We signed in silence, the scratch of ink on paper loud in the stillness. When it was done, I gathered the papers and met her gaze.
“Welcome to the arrangement, Miss Mason.”
Her expression didn’t soften. “Don’t make me regret it, Mr. Crawford.”
I almost smiled.
Don’t make me regret it either, I thought.