Micah was twenty-five, but exhaustion made her feel thirty-five.
A month ago, her world had cracked open when her mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The doctor hadn't softened the truth—without surgery, she wouldn't survive. And surgery required money Micah didn't have.
She had tried everything. Loans. Appeals. Begging the hospital management where she and her best friend, Helen, worked. Every door slammed shut.
She couldn't lose her mother.
Her father had died when she was barely six months old. Her mother was all she had. Helen was the only family life had spared her. Losing either of them was not an option.
Lost in her thoughts, Micah barely noticed the shouting down the corridor.
"I don't care how you do it," a man barked. "Find me a surrogate, or I'll shut this hospital down."
Micah looked up.
The man stormed out of the doctor's office—tall, furious, expensive from head to toe. Power clung to him like a second skin.
Before fear could talk her out of it, Micah stepped forward.
"Sir," she said, her voice shaking, "I think I can help."
He stopped. Turned slowly. "With what?"
"I overheard you," she admitted. "I can… carry your child."
Silence stretched between them.
"You?" he asked coolly.
"Yes."
His eyes assessed her like a business proposal. Then he said, "Fine. But you won't just carry my baby. You'll be my contract wife—for two years."
Micah's heart skipped. "Two years?"
"It's nothing," he replied flatly. "My grandfather wants a wife and an heir. You'll give him both."
He continued as if discussing numbers on a balance sheet.
"We marry. After one year, you get pregnant. You give birth. A few months later, you ask for a divorce."
He looked at her, waiting.
"So," he said. "Are you in—or out?"