— Hazel —
I woke up at 6:30 a.m., my heart already pounding like I'd missed something important. I reached blindly for my phone—no calls. No messages.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, one hand pressed gently to my stomach. Still mine. Still me. But by tonight, that would change.
The thought made my chest tighten.
I'd be carrying a stranger's baby. A man I'd never met. A man whose face I didn't even know. And somehow, I had convinced myself this was the right choice.
Yesterday, I begged Mabel to check in on Ma while I was away. She'd agreed, thankfully. I couldn't deal with more guilt today.
At exactly seven, a knock echoed through the apartment.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a soft sweater, heart hammering in my chest. When I opened the door, a man in an expensive suit greeted me without a smile.
"Miss Hazel?" he asked, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'm here to take you to the clinic."
The car waiting outside was sleek, tinted so dark I couldn't see the city pass by. I sat in the back, arms wrapped around myself, trying to calm the storm inside me.
I caught my reflection in the glass—pale, drawn, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Lips chewed raw. I looked exactly like what I was: a broke girl who had sold her body out of desperation.
But beneath the fear, something else lingered. Something I didn't want to name. I was very curious.
About him. The mystery man funding this pregnancy. The man who wanted nothing to do with me—and yet had paid enough to own my body for the next nine months.
What kind of man does that?
And why did thinking of him make my skin feel too tight?
The clinic didn't look like a clinic. It looked like a spa for the rich—marble floors, soft lighting, the scent of expensive candles and sterilized air. At the front entrance, Ellie was waiting, clipboard in hand and heels clicking.
"Right on time," she said with a smile, turning to lead me down a long hallway. "Dr. Freeman will be ready for you shortly."
The room they placed me in was too warm, too pristine—plush chairs, neutral colors, soft instrumental music. It was meant to relax me, but all it did was make my nerves worse.
"Please change into the gown and wait here," Ellie instructed. "We'll begin in just a few minutes."
The gown was paper-thin. I wrapped it tightly around myself and sat at the edge of the bed, bare legs swinging, heart thudding too loudly.
And that's when it hit me.
What if I couldn't go through with this?
What if I wasn't strong enough?
What if I couldn't let go of the baby when the time came?
A knock at the door interrupted my spiral, and Dr. Freeman stepped in. He looked just like I remembered—kind eyes, gray hair, the sort of calm that only comes with doing something a thousand times.
"The embryo looks healthy," he said after reviewing my chart. "Hormone levels are perfect. You're in excellent shape for the transfer."
Then he paused.
"I should also inform you… your sponsor has requested to observe the procedure remotely."
My eyes snapped up. "He wants to watch?"
"It's not uncommon," he said gently. "There will be a privacy screen. He won't see your face or speak to anyone. Just the procedure itself."
I swallowed hard. "He doesn't want to know what I look like… but he wants to watch me during this?"
"He specifically requested no identifying visuals," Dr. Freeman reassured me. "It's more about involvement than intrusion."
I nodded slowly. What choice did I have? I'd signed the contract. Every dotted line, every clause. This wasn't mine anymore.
The procedure room was clinical and softly lit. Machines beeped quietly in the background. In one corner, barely noticeable, was a camera. A red light blinked steadily.
He was watching.
The sedative made everything slow and quiet like I was underwater. But even through the haze, I felt it—his presence. Like someone breathing down my neck.
Dr. Freeman's voice was steady, walking me through each step. He was gentle. Professional. Comforting.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the man behind the camera. The stranger who was seeing me at my most vulnerable, most exposed, without ever showing his face.
Within minutes, it was done.
"Perfect," Dr. Freeman said with a smile. "Everything went beautifully."
They wheeled me into recovery. I lay there beneath a blanket, hand resting on my belly. I didn't feel any different. But I knew everything had changed.
I wasn't just a surrogate anymore. I was carrying his child.
The man who had paid to watch me. Who had chosen to observe the most intimate moment of the process, yet still refused to know my name or see my face.
It wasn't just clinical.
It felt personal.
And I hated that some part of me—deep, unwanted—ached to know more about him.
I tried to sleep but couldn't. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were strange—shadows whispering words I couldn't make out. Hands that didn't quite touch me, but lingered just near enough to make my skin heat.
I woke up flushed and restless, my heart racing.
This was supposed to be simple.
Get pregnant. Have the baby. Get paid. Leave.
But lying there in that quiet room, I realized I'd made a mistake.
This wasn't just about the baby anymore.
It wasn't even just about survival.
Somehow—without meeting him, without speaking a word—I'd already gotten tangled up in the one thing I swore I didn't want.
And I had eight and a half months to find a way out.