DOMINIC'S POV
Dr. Patel's office smells like vanilla and expensive hand sanitizer.
I arrived fifteen minutes before Emma. The waiting room has soft lighting and abstract art. Everything designed to make nervous couples feel calm.
Except Emma and I aren't a couple. We're a business arrangement, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm doing something fundamentally wrong.
"Mr. Westbrook?" The receptionist smiles. "Dr. Patel is ready for you."
"I'm waiting for someone."
I check my phone. One twenty-eight. Emma should be in my car right now. I texted her this morning to confirm, and she responded with one word: "Okay."
Not reassuring.
The door opens, and Emma walks in. She's wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair down. She looks young and scared.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi. Ready?"
"No. But I'm here."
The receptionist leads us to Dr. Patel's office. Photos of babies cover one wall. Hundreds of babies.
Soon there will be one more.
Dr. Patel enters. She's in her forties with kind eyes.
"Dominic, Emma, welcome." She shakes our hands. "I've reviewed your contract and medical histories. Emma, have you ever been pregnant before?"
"No."
"Any medical conditions? Allergies?"
"I'm healthy. Allergic to penicillin."
Dr. Patel makes notes. "Good. Dominic, you've opted to use donor eggs rather than having Emma provide genetic material. Why?"
The question catches me off guard. "I thought it would be cleaner. Fewer complications."
"Cleaner how?"
"Emma won't be biologically connected to the baby. Just the carrier. Simpler."
Dr. Patel looks at Emma. "How do you feel about that?"
Emma's quiet. "I think it's smart. Less chance I'll get attached."
Something about the way she says it makes my chest tight.
"I want to be clear," Dr. Patel says. "The genetic connection isn't what creates attachment. Emma will carry this baby for nine months. She'll feel it move, respond to her voice. Her body will bond with it. Attachment is neurological and hormonal, not just genetic."
"But she understands she'll have to give it up," I say. "That's in the contract."
"Understanding intellectually and being able to do it emotionally are different things." Dr. Patel's voice is firm. "This is nine months of physical and emotional investment. Emma, your body will never be the same. Dominic, you're asking another human to go through something profound. Both of you need to respect that."
The room falls silent.
"What happens next?" I ask.
Dr. Patel pulls out a chart. "Emma will start hormone treatments. Birth control pills first, then estrogen, then progesterone. We'll monitor closely with bloodwork and ultrasounds. When optimal, we'll transfer the embryo."
"How long does that take?"
"Four to six weeks."
Emma speaks up. "What are the side effects?"
"Mood swings, fatigue, headaches, bloating. Some women feel nothing. Others feel like intense PMS. Everyone reacts differently."
"And if the first transfer doesn't work?"
"We wait for your body to recover and try again. Success rates are about fifty percent. But Emma's young and healthy. I'm optimistic."
Fifty percent. Coin flip odds.
"What if none work?" Emma asks.
Dr. Patel looks at me. "How many embryos are we creating?"
"As many as necessary."
"We'll create six. That gives multiple attempts. But Emma, if after three transfers nothing works, I'd recommend stopping. Your body needs rest."
Three attempts. Three chances before my deadline passes and I lose everything.
"When can we start?" I ask.
"Today. I'd like to examine Emma, do bloodwork, and if clear, start birth control tonight."
Emma's eyes widened. "Tonight? That fast?"
"The sooner we start regulating your cycle, the sooner we can transfer. Unless you need more time?"
Emma looks at me. I can see the question in her eyes.
But there's also Lily. The treatment starts Monday. The money already spent.
"I'm ready," Emma says.
Dr. Patel stands. "Emma, come with me. Dominic, wait here."
They leave, and I'm alone with the baby photos.
Will mine be up there someday? A baby I paid someone to carry?
Twenty minutes later, they return. Emma looks pale.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Perfect," Dr. Patel says. "Emma's in excellent health. We did bloodwork, and assuming it's clear, we can start hormones tonight."
She hands Emma a bag. "Birth control pills, instructions, and my direct number. Take one every night at the same time. No exceptions. We'll see you in two weeks."
Emma takes the bag like it's a bomb.
"What happens during the pregnancy?" Emma's voice is small. "What will it actually be like?"
Dr. Patel looks at me. "What restrictions are in the contract?"
"No alcohol, no smoking. Proper nutrition. Limited physical activity once she's showing."
"And she'll be living with you?"
"In my penthouse. Her own space, but nearby so I can ensure she and the baby are safe."
Dr. Patel's expression shifts. "Emma, can I speak with you alone?"
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I need to make sure she's comfortable with these arrangements."
"She signed a contract."
"Contracts don't protect people from coercion or regret." Dr. Patel's voice is steel. "Emma, come with me."
They leave, and I'm left wondering what just happened. Does Dr. Patel think I'm forcing Emma into this?
So why does it suddenly feel like I'm the villain?
They return fifteen minutes later. Emma won't meet my eyes.
"Everything alright?" I ask.
"Fine," Emma says, but her voice says otherwise.
Dr. Patel walks us to the door. "Emma has my number. She can call anytime. Dominic, remember that Emma is a person, not an incubator. Treat her accordingly."
The words sting.
In the elevator, Emma and I stand in silence. She's clutching the bag of pills.
"What did Dr. Patel say?" I finally ask.
"She wanted to make sure I wasn't being forced."
"And?"
"I told her I wasn't. That I'm doing this for my sister."
We walk to the car where James is waiting.
"Emma, if you're having doubts..."
"I'm not."
"You can barely look at me."
She meets my eyes. "Dr. Patel showed me pictures. Of what pregnancy does to your body. She showed me statistics on complications. On women who die in childbirth."
My stomach drops. "I'll make sure you have the best medical care. Whatever you need."
"That's not the point. I'm risking my life for your baby. For money. And suddenly that feels really heavy."
We reach the car but don't get in.
"Do you want to stop?" I ask quietly. "We can tear up the contract."
She laughs without humor. "And tell my sister what? Sorry, I can't pay for that treatment anymore."
"I'd still pay for Lily's treatment. No matter what."
Emma stares at me. "Why?"
"Because I'm not a monster, despite what you might think."
"I don't think you're a monster. I think you're desperate. Like me. And desperate people do things that might destroy them."
She's right.
"Emma, I promise I'll take care of you. During the pregnancy and after. Whatever you need."
"What I need is for this to not feel like I'm selling my body."
"You're not. You're providing a service."
"That's the same thing with different words."
She gets in the car. I slide in beside her, and James pulls into traffic.
The drive is silent. She stares out the window, one hand pressed against her stomach.
"I'll take the first pill tonight," she says as we pull up to her building.
"You don't have to. Not if you're not ready."
"When will I ever be ready?" She looks at me, tears in her eyes. "I'm going to carry your baby and give it away. Let you dictate where I live and what I eat. Then walk away and pretend none of it mattered. When could I possibly be ready?"
I don't have an answer.
"But I'm doing it anyway," she continues. "Because Lily deserves to live, and you deserve to keep your company, and apparently, this is how the universe works. People are using each other to survive."
She opens the car door.
"Emma, wait."
"What?"
I should say something meaningful. But all I can manage is, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. We haven't even started."
She gets out and walks into her building without looking back.
James catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "She seems like a good person."
"She is."
"Then why do you look like you just kicked a puppy?"
Because that's exactly how I feel. Like I've taken something innocent and twisted it into something transactional and cold.
"Just drive, James."
My phone buzzes as we pull away. A text from Emma: "I took the pill. Day one of whatever this is."
I stare at the message before responding: "Thank you for trusting me."
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Finally: "I hope I don't regret it."