Oliviat Mary Alexa

My husband slid a stack of papers across the marble island. A pen on top. "Sign it, Adeline." I picked up the contract. My eyes scanned the words. Surrogacy Agreement. Gestational Carrier: Adeline Cross. Intended Parents: Damon Cross and Vanessa Hale. The wine glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. "You want me," I whispered, "to carry your mistress's baby?" Damon didn't even flinch at the broken glass. He stepped over the red puddle in his polished Italian shoes and poured himself a fresh drink. "Don't be dramatic," he said. "It's not Vanessa's baby. It's mine. She just can't... carry to term. Her body is too delicate." "And mine isn't?" I gripped the edge of the counter. "Eight years, Damon. I gave you eight years." "And you couldn't give me a child." He swirled the amber liquid. "Three miscarriages, Adeline. Three. The doctors said your body rejects pregnancy. But Vanessa's eggs are perfect. We just need a... vessel." A vessel. That's what fifteen years of marriage had reduced me to. Not a wife. Not a partner. A vessel. I looked at this man I had loved since I was nineteen. The man I'd put through law school by working two jobs. The man whose empire I'd helped build from a single rented office to a forty-story tower with his name on it. "Why me?" My voice came out steady. Too steady. "Why not hire a real surrogate?" "Because you're discreet," he said simply. "And because you owe me. After everything I've spent on your fertility treatments, the least you can do is give back nine months." I owe him. The laugh that escaped my throat surprised even me. It came out sharp, jagged, like the glass at my feet. "Vanessa wants this handled cleanly," Damon continued, oblivious. "You sign, you carry the baby, you hand it over, and then we discuss the divorce terms. You'll get a generous settlement. Everyone wins." "And if I say no?" He set down his glass. For the first time, his blue eyes turned to ice. "Then you get nothing," he said. "Not a cent. I'll make sure of it. I have the better lawyers, remember? I'll bury you so deep you'll be lucky to afford a studio apartment." I stared at the contract. At the signature line waiting for my name. And then I smiled. "Give me the pen," I said. Damon's shoulders relaxed. That smug, familiar grin spread across his face. "I knew you'd see reason." I took the pen. But I didn't sign. I slid my other hand into my cardigan pocket, where my phone had been recording every single word for the last ten minutes. "You know what's funny, Damon?" I tapped my thumb against the screen, ending the recording. "You always told me I was too soft. Too forgiving. You were right." His grin faltered. "But I'm not soft anymore." I dropped the pen on his precious contract. "I'll see you in court."