EMMA'S POV
"Your sister has maybe three months without the treatment."
Dr. Martinez's words echo in my head as I race through the hotel's kitchen, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop the tray of chocolate soufflés. Three months. Ninety days. That's all Lily has left unless I can somehow pull together two hundred thousand dollars for an experimental treatment that insurance won't cover.
Two hundred thousand dollars. I can't even afford this month's rent.
"Chen, those soufflés needed to be plated five minutes ago!" Chef Bernard's voice cuts through my panic.
I nod and force my trembling hands steady. The soufflés are perfect, risen exactly right, the kind of work that should make me proud. Instead, all I can think about is Lily lying in that hospital bed, her skin too pale, her smile too tired.
I'm arranging the final garnish when someone slams into me from behind. The tray tips, and I watch in horror as six perfect chocolate soufflés tumble to the floor in a cascade of shattered porcelain and ruined dessert.
The kitchen goes silent.
"What the hell, Chen?" Bernard's face turns purple. "That's for the Westbrook table. Do you have any idea who….."
"I'm sorry, I'll remake them, I just need..."
"There's no time to remake them! Mr. Westbrook specifically requested those for his investors!" Bernard is shouting now, and everyone is staring, and my phone is buzzing in my pocket with what's probably another hospital bill I can't pay.
Something inside me breaks.
I run. Through the kitchen, past the shocked faces of the other cooks, straight into the walk-in freezer. The cold hits me like a slap, but I don't care. I sink onto a crate of vegetables and let the tears come, huge gasping sobs that hurt my chest.
Three months. Two hundred thousand dollars. Impossible.
I don't know how long I sit there crying before the freezer door opens. I expect Chef Bernard coming to fire me, but instead, a man in an expensive suit steps inside. Even through my tears, I recognize him. Dominic Westbrook. The owner of this hotel and about fifty others around the world. I've seen him maybe twice in the two years I've worked here, always from a distance, always surrounded by people in suits carrying tablets and phones.
He's taller than I expected. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes that look like they've never smiled in their life.
"I'm so sorry about your dinner," I manage to choke out, wiping my face with my sleeve. "I'll pay for it, I'll—"
"Are you alright?" His voice is cold, clipped, but there's something in his expression that looks almost like concern.
The question is so unexpected that I start crying harder. "No. No, I'm not alright. My sister is dying, and I can't save her, and I just ruined your dinner, and I'm probably fired, and I don't know what to do anymore."
I should shut up. I should stop talking immediately. But exhaustion and fear and two years of holding everything together by myself all come pouring out in the freezing cold of this walk-in, to a billionaire who definitely doesn't care about my problems.
"Your sister is dying?" he asks quietly.
I nod, hiccuping. "Leukemia. She needs an experimental treatment that costs two hundred thousand dollars, and insurance won't cover it, and I've been working double shifts for two years, but it's not enough. It's never enough. And now she has maybe three months, and I can't….." My voice breaks. "I can't save her."
Dominic Westbrook studies me with those cold eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he pulls out his phone, types something, and puts it away.
"What's your name?"
"Emma. Emma Chen."
"Emma, how would you feel about two hundred thousand dollars?"
I stare at him. "What?"
"Actually, let's make it five hundred thousand. Two hundred for your sister's treatment, three hundred for you to start over after this is done."
My heart is pounding. "I don't understand. Why would you…"
"I need something from you. Call it a business arrangement." He crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. "I need you to carry my child."
The words don't make sense. I must have heard him wrong. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I need a surrogate. I'll pay you five hundred thousand dollars to carry and deliver my child. All medical expenses covered, of course. You'll sign a contract agreeing to the terms, and once the baby is born, you walk away. Clean, simple, no complications."
I should say no. This is insane. But all I can think about is Lily, getting thinner every time I visit, her light dimming a little more each day.
"Why me?" I whisper.
Something flickers across his face. "Why not you? You need money. I need a surrogate. My assistant tells me our last four candidates rejected the offer because they wanted something more... personal. I don't do personal. This is business. You seem like someone who understands that desperation doesn't leave room for sentiment."
He's right. I am desperate. Desperate enough to consider this absolutely crazy proposal from a man I don't know.
"I would have to carry your baby for nine months and then just... give it up?"
"That's the arrangement, yes. You'd be well compensated. Your sister would get her treatment. You'd have enough money to go back to culinary school, start your own restaurant, whatever you want. All I need is your womb for nine months and your signature on a contract."
The clinical way he says it should offend me. Instead, it makes the whole thing feel manageable. Not a baby. A job. A transaction.
"I need to think about it," I say.
"You have twenty-four hours. Come to my office tomorrow at six PM with your answer." He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. His fingers are cold. "If you say yes, my lawyers will have the contract ready. If you say no, I'll forget this conversation ever happened, and you can keep your job here. Chef Bernard won't fire you. I'll handle it."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your sister."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the freezer holding a business card that might be my sister's only chance at survival.
I sit there until my hands are numb from cold, turning the card over and over. Dominic Westbrook. CEO, Westbrook Hotels International. A phone number printed in plain black ink.
Five hundred thousand dollars. Lily's life. Nine months of my life.
My phone buzzes. It's a text from Lily: "How's work? Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
She's lying. She's not fine. She won't be fine unless I can somehow perform a miracle.
I look down at the business card in my hand.
Maybe miracles come in unexpected forms.
Maybe they come in the shape of cold-eyed billionaires who need something only you can give them.
I put the card in my pocket and leave the freezer. Chef Bernard is waiting outside, looking furious, but before he can say anything, his phone rings. He answers, listens, and his expression changes completely.
"Yes, Mr. Westbrook. Of course, Mr. Westbrook. Right away." He hangs up and looks at me like I've just grown a second head. "Get back to work, Chen."
I nod and return to my station, my mind spinning.
Twenty-four hours to decide if I'm willing to carry a stranger's child for money.
Twenty-four hours to choose between my own future and my sister's life.
But really, there's no choice at all.
There never was.
"Emma?" One of the other cooks touches my arm. "Are you okay? What did Mr. Westbrook want?"
I force a smile. "Nothing. Just apologizing for the disruption."
It's the first lie I tell. It won't be the last.