The Billionaire's Price For My Baby

Elaina woke up at 6:00 AM. Her internal clock was still set to 'Assistant Mode'. She sat up in the massive bed, confused for a moment by the high thread count sheets and the silence. Then the memory of the wedding rushed back.

She got up and went to the kitchen. It was a chef's kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel. She opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for rows of Evian water and a jar of white truffle paste.

She sighed and turned to the coffee machine. It was a chrome monstrosity with dials and levers that looked like they belonged in a cockpit. She poked at a few buttons, trying to figure out how to get a simple cup of caffeine.

"Don't touch that."

She jumped. Adrian was walking in from the home gym. He wasn't sweaty or disheveled; he was wearing a high-performance black compression shirt that looked more like armor than gym wear. He looked clinical, precise, and utterly unapproachable.

Elaina felt a traitorous flush of heat in her belly. He was a jerk, but he was a devastatingly handsome jerk.

"I just wanted coffee," she said, stepping back.

"You'll mess up the pressure calibration," he muttered. He walked over, his scent-musk and expensive soap-filling her nose. He deftly manipulated the levers, brewing a single shot of espresso. He poured it into a cup and drank it in one go.

He didn't make her one.

"Can I have a cup?" she asked, annoyed.

"No," he said, rinsing his cup immediately. "Caffeine is bad for the fetus. Dr. Foster sent over your dietary restrictions."

He pointed to an iPad on the granite island. Elaina picked it up. The schedule was insane. 7:00 AM: Green smoothie. 8:00 AM: Prenatal Yoga. 10:00 AM: Classical Music Hour.

"I have a job," she said, putting the iPad down with a clatter. "I can't do this. I have to go to the office."

Adrian turned to look at her, leaning against the counter. "You are on indefinite administrative leave. I've instructed HR to freeze your access."

Elaina felt the blood drain from her face. "You what? You can't do that! That's my career!"

"Your career was fetching my coffee," he said dismissively. "Now your career is carrying my child. You will stay here. You will rest."

He pulled a black Centurion card from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter. It spun and settled near her hand.

"Buy some clothes," he said. "You look like a refugee. I won't have my wife photographed in polyester."

Elaina stared at the card. It represented unlimited freedom, yet it felt like a leash.

"I have clothes," she snapped.

"You have rags," he corrected. He walked toward the hallway. "Dr. Foster will be here in ten minutes. Eat whatever she gives you."

"I hate you," she whispered to his retreating back.

He paused, but didn't turn around. "The feeling is mutual, Elaina. But we have a contract."

He disappeared into his room to shower. Elaina grabbed the black card, her fingers trembling with the urge to snap it in half. But she thought of the hospital bills that might exceed the trust fund coverage. She thought of the safety net this plastic represented.

The doorbell rang.

A stern woman in a white coat stood there. "Mrs. Conway. I am Dr. Foster." She marched into the kitchen, opened a cooler bag she had brought, and placed a glass of thick, green sludge on the counter.

"Kale, spinach, and fish oil," Dr. Foster announced. "Drink up."

Elaina looked at the green goop. She looked at the closed door of Adrian's bedroom. She picked up the glass and took a sip. It tasted like dirt and metal.

She swallowed it down, choking back the urge to vomit. This was her life now.