Chapter two: The intended parents

Celyne POV

Clara’s reaction is immediate.

“Are you insane? Or are you drunk?” she explodes, pacing across the marble floor like a storm in designer silk. “Tell me this is shock talking. Tell me you’re not actually planning to risk your life for strangers.”

I don’t flinch.

“I already made the calls last night,” I say quietly. “I have an appointment at a fertility clinic in three hours.”

Her head snaps toward me. “You what?”

“I’m going.”

Clara lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Celyne, you were diagnosed a week ago.”

“I know.”

“You have stage two ovarian cancer.” Her voice cracks around the word. “Your body needs immediate treatment, not hormones. Not pregnancy.”

I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. “They’re taking my uterus within the year.”

“And that means you gamble with the months you have left before surgery?” she fires back. “You don’t even know if you’re fit to carry a child right now! What if something happens along the way to you or the baby?”

She continued, “Have you thought about that?”

“I’ll find out today.”

Her anger only grows.

“You think this is poetic?” she demands. “You think this is some kind of dramatic final chapter where you prove something to the universe?”

I don’t answer.

Her eyes narrow.

“Or is this about Alexander?”

The name slices through me.

Clara doesn’t stop.

“If you think getting pregnant for someone else is some twisted way to prove a point to Alexander Hale and his family, then you are clearly stupid.”

The word lands harder than malignant ever did.

Stupid.

I stare at her, hurt flaring behind my ribs. I don’t defend myself. I don’t explain that this has nothing to do with Alexander’s betrayal, or the humiliation of walking away from him five years ago while his family looked at me like I was disposable.

I just walk away.

“Celyne—” she calls, but I don’t turn back.

The fertility clinic smells like antiseptic and expensive hope.

White walls. Soft music. Women with hopeful eyes sitting beside men who look terrified and reverent all at once.

A nurse calls my name.

“Ms. Celyne?”

I rise.

Inside the doctor’s office, I’m handed a stack of documents. Consent forms. Risk acknowledgments. Liability waivers that read like quiet warnings.

Full-body tests follow.

Blood drawn.

Ultrasound.

Hormone panels.

A cold wand pressing against a part of me that soon won’t exist.

I stare at the ceiling while machines hum.

Later, the doctor sits across from me, hands folded.

“We ran your results,” he says carefully. “The cancer is localized, but pregnancy will accelerate hormonal activity.”

“I know.”

“It is not medically advisable for you to carry a child in your condition.”

“I know.”

He studies me.

“You were referred by someone very close to me,” he continues slowly. “That is the only reason I am even entertaining this discussion.”

I swallow.

“I am asking you not to deprive me of this,” I whisper. “One chance. One time before it’s gone.”

He leans back.

“Delaying treatment can worsen your prognosis. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I don’t care.”

His gaze sharpens. “You should.”

“As long as it doesn’t affect the baby.”

Silence stretches between us.

Finally, he exhales.

“I will allow the process to begin,” he says. “But you will return in one month for observation. If there are complications, we stop.”

Relief floods me so violently I almost cry.

“Thank you.”

“Go home,” he adds. “And think carefully. You still have time to change your mind.”

I don’t intend to.

The weeks that follow are torture.

Every morning I wake with fear lodged in my throat.

What if it doesn’t work?

What if it does?

I notice small changes—fatigue that feels different from illness. A strange tenderness in my chest. A faint wave of nausea that makes Clara watch me with worried eyes.

She doesn’t bring up Alexander again.

But the silence between us holds his name.

At night, I press my hand to my stomach and whisper apologies to a future I’m building recklessly.

One month later, I sit on the edge of an examination bed while a nurse draws blood again.

The wait is worse this time.

The doctor returns with a file.

He doesn’t smile.

“You’re one week along,” he says.

For a second, I don’t understand.

Then it hits me.

Pregnant.

I stare down at my stomach like it’s something sacred.

I should feel joy.

I should feel triumph.

Instead, I feel… suspended.

“Your levels are stable for now,” he continues. “But we need to monitor you closely.”

I nod absently, still holding my abdomen.

“There’s something else,” he says gently. “The intended parents are here today. They’d like to meet you.”

My heart stutters.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

He rises. “Stay here. I’ll have the nurse call you shortly.”

An hour later, a knock sounds against the door.

“Ms. Celyne?” the nurse says softly. “They’re ready.”

My legs feel unsteady as I follow her down the corridor.

Every step echoes.

We stop outside a private consultation room.

The nurse opens the door.

And the world tilts.

Alexander Hale stands by the window, sunlight cutting sharp lines across his impossibly familiar face.

Tall.

Immaculate.

Controlled.

Beside him stands a woman in a tailored ivory suit, elegant and composed. Her dark hair falls perfectly over one shoulder.

“Elara Wynn,” the nurse says warmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Hale—your intended parents.”

Mrs.

The word slams into my chest.

Alexander turns slowly.

Our eyes meet.

Recognition flares first.

Then shock.

Then something darker.

Elara’s manicured hand slides possessively into the crook of his arm as she smiles at me politely.

“So,” she says, voice smooth and curious, “you’re our surrogate. What a small world.”

And in that moment, I realize the universe has a cruel sense of humor.

Because the child growing inside me—

Is Alexander’s.

The same Alexander.