MICHAEL VOSS
Elsewhere…
The penthouse atop the VossTower gleamed like a crown under the Manhattan skyline, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing a city that never slept. Michael Voss stood at the edge of that view, his reflection a ghost in the glass—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that magazines had dubbed 'The Face of Modern Empire.'
At thirty-two, he was the youngest billionaire on the Forbes' list, heir to a fortune built on tech innovations that had revolutionized everything from AI-driven healthcare to sustainable energy grids. But tonight, as the sun dipped below the horizon in a blaze of orange and purple, Mike felt the weight of it all pressing down like an invisible hand.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass—a Macallan 1926, but it tasted like ash on his tongue. The doctor's words echoed in his mind, a relentless loop from the sterile office he'd left just hours ago. "Six months, maybe a year if we're aggressive with treatments. But Mr. Sterling, the glioblastoma is advanced. It's... inoperable."
Cancer. The word was a joke, wasn't it? Something that happened to other people, not to him. Not to the man who had climbed Everest on a whim and at twenty, negotiated billion-dollar deals over breakfast, and bedded supermodels without a second thought. Mike had always been invincible to himself, a force of nature wrapped in bespoke suits and unyielding ambition. But now, his body betrayed him, a ticking clock hidden beneath his flawless exterior.
He set the glass down on the marble bar with a clink that reverberated through the empty space. The penthouse was a monument to solitude—minimalist design, priceless art on the walls, but no warmth, no echoes of laughter. No family. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was eighteen, leaving him the empire and a void he had filled with work. Relationships? Fleeting. Women came and went, drawn to the allure of his wealth and charisma, but none stayed.
Why would they?
Mike had never wanted strings, never needed anyone.
Until now.
The idea had struck him like lightning during the doctor's prognosis.
A child.
His legacy couldn't end with him, dissolving into boardrooms and stock options. Voss Industries would thrive under his executives, but he had been an only child and blood—his blood—needed to carry on. He wanted a son or daughter to inherit not just the fortune, but the fire that had built it. But how?
Adoption was out; somewhat disrespectful when he thought about it.
He craved a biological connection, a piece of himself to outlive the disease ravaging his brain. Surrogacy. The word rolled through his thoughts, clinical and detached, yet laced with desperation. He needed a woman—strong, intelligent, beautiful—to carry his child. Not just any woman. Someone who could handle the secrecy, the contracts, the emotional firewall he would erect to protect them both. A rich woman.
Their child would lack for nothing.
Mike pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. His lawyer, Marcus, would handle the legalities. NDAs, medical screenings, even some compensation that would set her up for life. But who?
He needed discretion above all. No gold-diggers, no scandals.
This was not about romance; it was about survival.
It made him regret not having a child earlier too.
A notification pinged— an email from his assistant, reminding him of the next day's gala for the Voss Foundation. Black-tie, high society, the perfect hunting ground? No. Too public. He needed control.
Sinking into the leather armchair, Mike closed his eyes, the first twinge of a headache pulsing at his temples—a harbinger of worse to come, and he could feel. Visions flickered: a child with his dark hair, laughing in the gardens of his Hamptons estate. One he would never be there to watch.
His head hurt again, and he knew he had to get someone to look at it. So he called his driver before stepping out into the garage where lines of cars waited.
"Morning, sir," the man said, pulling the door open. "The office?"
"No," Mike said, sliding into the back seat. "Take me to the clinic."
The Voss Medical Center was his pet project, a state-of-the-art facility funded by his foundation, specializing in cutting-edge treatments. The place, to him, was irony at its finest—he had poured millions into its cancer research, only to become its latest victim. Dr. LindaVasquez met him in her office, her expression a mix of professional sympathy and resolve.
"Mike, you're sure about this?" she asked, handing him a tablet with profiles. As his personal physician, she had been briefed on his plan, her discretion absolute.
"Positive," he replied, scanning the surrogacy candidates. All vetted: healthy, educated, no red flags. But none sparked... anything. They were resumes on a screen, not people.
Linda leaned forward. "Surrogacy isn't just medical. It's emotional. You'll need someone who understands."
"I know." He paused, meeting her gaze. "Find me the best. Money's no object."
By afternoon, back in his corner office overlooking Central Park, Mike fielded calls from investors, his voice steady despite the storm inside. But his mind wandered. What if the child inherited his illness? Genetic testing would mitigate risks, but life was no guarantee.
And the mother—would she want involvement?
No, he would ensure a clean break. Yet a part of him, buried deep, yearned for more now that his death was close. Connection. Intimacy.
Things he had denied himself for years.
That evening, at the gala, Mike mingled amid crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. Champagne flowed, laughter tinkled, but he felt detached, a spectator in his own life. Then he saw her across the room, a woman in a sleek emerald dress hugged her curves like a second skin.
Long auburn hair cascaded over one shoulder, her green eyes sharp and assessing as she spoke to a cluster of donors.
Who was she?
Not one of the usual socialites.
He watched as she moved with purpose, not flirtation.
"Mr. Voss," a voice interrupted. It was Marcus, his lawyer, pulling him aside. "I've got a lead on surrogates. Top agency, ironclad contracts."
"Good. Set up meetings."
But Mike's eyes stayed on the woman.
Her name was Sophia Hale, he learned from a quick inquiry with the event coordinator. Twenty-eight, a nonprofit director focused on children's education—ironic, given his quest. Divorced, no kids, impeccable background.
She wasn't here to schmooze; she was pitching for funding.
Intrigued, Mike approached as the crowd thinned. "Ms. Hale, I hear you're doing remarkable work with underprivileged youth."
She turned, surprise flickering before composure set in. "Mr. Voss. Yes, our programs have reached over five thousand kids this year. We're expanding, but resources are tight."
Her voice was warm, confident, with a hint of steel. No fawning, no eyelash batting. Refreshing.
"Tell me more," he said, gesturing to a quieter corner.
As she spoke passionately about literacy initiatives and mentorship, Mike studied her. Intelligent, resilient, beautiful in a natural way that outshone the Botox brigade around them. Could she be the one? Not just a surrogate, but... more? The thought startled him. Romance wasn't part of the plan. Yet her presence stirred something dormant, a spark in the darkness.
"Impressive," he said when she finished. "I'd like to discuss a partnership. Dinner tomorrow?"
Sophia hesitated, her eyes searching his. "That's generous, but I don't mix business with... well, anything else."
He smiled, the first genuine one in days. "Strictly business, I assure you."
Liar, a voice whispered in his head. But as she nodded, handing him her card, Mike felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe this was fate's cruel twist—offering connection just as his time ran out.
Back in the penthouse that night, he stared at the city lights, Sophia's image lingering. The illness loomed, but so did possibility. A child. A legacy. And perhaps, against all odds, love.
He picked up the phone to call Marcus, ready to pivot his plan. But before he could dial, it vibrated in his hand—an unknown number. Curious, he answered.
"Mr. Voss," a gravelly voice said, laced with menace. "I know about your diagnosis. And if you want to keep it secret—especially from that pretty redhead you just met—it's going to cost you."
Mike's blood ran cold.
Who was this? And how did they know?