The Surrogate Contract With The Ruthless Billionaire

Five years.

That was how long it had been since Vivian's funeral, since the quiet ceremony with black umbrellas and fake condolences, since Nicholas Williams had looked me in the eye and told me I didn't have a choice.

It has been Five years since I stopped thinking of this house as temporary. Now, it is just part of my daily life; the kids have become my new normal.

"Mommy!"

The nickname still made something flutter in my chest. At times, it felt sweet or like a weight I hadn't earned. But neither of the triplets, Ivy, Rita, or Julie, knew any other word for me. 

As far as they were concerned, I was their mother. And in all the ways that counted, like feeding them, protecting them from their nightmares, giving band-aids when they got hurt, or bedtime stories.

I turned away from the sink and crouched just in time to catch Ivy as she barreled into my legs, her curls bouncing wildly.

"What's all this energy?" I laughed, smoothing a hand over her head. "Julie said you make better pancakes than Daddy!" she announced, and I smiled. 

"Is that a fact?"

Behind her, Julie appeared, arms crossed and a mischievous grin. "I didn't say better," she declared, knowing how to stir things up. "I said the ones you make don't look like burned hats."

A snort came from the hallway, and I stilled to stare at the handsome man in my sight. 

Nicholas stood in the doorway, wearing a black suit and a half-done tie. His watch glinted in the sunlight. Even now, he looked wonderful with his tall stature, effortlessly groomed appearance, and unreadable expression.

"Is that so?" he said coolly.

The children giggled and dashed off, their footsteps echoing into the vast halls of the house.

He stepped into the kitchen, picking up his coffee from the counter where I'd placed it twenty minutes earlier. It was still hot and perfect, but he didn't thank me; he never did.

"Your appointment is at Five," he said without looking at me.

"What appointment?" I said, frowning in confusion.

"For Julie's pediatrician, I rescheduled it since you missed the last one." My stomach tightened. "You didn't tell me about it."

"I shouldn't have to."

There it was, the tone, that subtle, dismissive edge that told me this was not a conversation, but an order.

I didn't answer, I just nodded, returning to the dishes. We had these moments often, sharp and cold and quiet. 

He never yelled, never raised his voice, but everything he said carried an unspoken threat. One he never needed to say aloud anymore: "You're here because I let you be."

No one could deny that he was a good father. He was always attentive and affectionate, so the kids loved him. He tucked them in bed every night when he wasn't traveling, read to them, and built extravagant playhouses in the backyard.

But to me?

I was still the woman who took something from him.

He hadn't forgiven me for Vivian's death, and grief had twisted him into something sharp.

I sometimes caught him staring at me from across a room, his eyes distant and tormented. He seemed to be trying to imagine her in my place or erase me altogether.

Later that week, I stood on the patio, hanging Rita's tiny T-shirts on the drying rack. The sun was warm, and the air smelled like lavender from the garden. If someone had taken a photo of me then, they might have thought I looked peaceful.

They wouldn't have known I flinched every time I heard his footsteps.

Nicholas walked out onto the patio without a word, his phone pressed to his ear. He barely looked at me as he passed, but I heard the tail end of his conversation.

"...no, I said I'm not ready for that, I'm not replacing her."

I froze, one hand on a peg.

Replacing her.

He wasn't talking about business, I knew that much. He never spoke about Vivian to me, but I knew she was still in everything. 

Her photos hung in the hallway, and her perfume bottles remained untouched in the upstairs bathroom. It was as if she might return any day, but I knew she couldn't.

I swallowed and looked away. I wasn't here for him and reminded myself of that every day. I was here for them, Ivy, Rita, and Julie. 

I woke them, fed them, played with them, and sang them to sleep. Every scraped knee, every fever, every tantrum, they were all mine to handle.

And in the quiet hours of the night, when I tiptoed past the nursery back to my room, the small, spare guest room at the far end of the house, I reminded myself that it wasn't forever.

Or at least, it wasn't supposed to be.

After everyone was asleep that night, I sat on the edge of my bed with the lamp on and picked up my phone.

There was a missed call from my mother and then a text.

"Sweetheart, can I see you soon? I know you're busy with school, but I miss you."

Guilt hit me square in the chest like it had been doing for a while now.

I hadn't seen her in for too long, and she lived just a few hours away, in a house I used to call home. She wouldn't like Nicholas, and he'd never welcome her here; his kindness wasn't part of the deal.

I stood, pacing a little.

I had the pediatrician appointment tomorrow as well as laundry. There was always something, some reason to stay locked in this life I hadn't chosen but couldn't seem to escape.

But still, that message echoed in my chest.

Can I see you?

I don't even remember the last time I hugged her or felt the warmth she exuded.

I stared out the window at the dark lawn below, Five years of living someone else's life, of putting myself last.

I turned and grabbed my overnight bag from the top of the closet. Just for the weekend, I told myself.

I would visit her, and I'd let the kids stay with the nanny because she was more than capable. I needed to breathe. For a while, I needed a reminder that I wasn't just the woman who stayed behind.

I still had a name, a past, and a mother who loved me dearly. I needed to remember who I was before all this began.