A Billionaire's Surrogacy Deal

I never thought desperation could taste so bitter.

It started with my father slamming his phone on the table, his face pale, mouth trembling. "They froze our accounts," he said. "Everything's gone."

Gone.

The word echoed in my ears like a death sentence. Our family business-my father's pride, my mother's legacy, and the only stability I'd ever known-was on the edge of collapsing. Creditors were already circling like vultures.

And I-nineteen, broke, and terrified-was supposed to save us.

My mother clutched my hand with tears in her eyes. "Anastasia, we can't lose the house. Please... help your father."

Help him? How? I worked part-time at a library and barely made enough for lunch. But the look in my mother's eyes broke me. The way she said it, like I was her last hope.

So, I did what desperate girls do.

I searched for a miracle.

And I found it-no, I stumbled into it-by overhearing a conversation I wasn't meant to hear.

At a nearby café, two girls were whispering across from me, not even bothering to lower their voices. One of them said, "You didn't hear? The Winston family is looking for a surrogate. They're offering millions."

"Not just any surrogate," the other girl whispered. "It's like an auction. You go in, sign your life away, and if you're chosen, you get the money. No marriage. Just a baby. Easy."

A chill ran through me.

The Winston.

Everyone knew the name. Old money. Power. The kind of people who lived in glass towers and thought the rest of us were ants. And they were looking for someone to give them an heir?

It sounded insane. And yet... perfect.

I barely slept that night. I couldn't stop thinking about it. The money. My parents' faces. The bills stacked in my drawer. My little brother who still believed in Santa. The pressure sat on my chest like an anvil.

Would I be willing to sell my body to save my family?

I already knew the answer. I'd known it since the moment my father's voice cracked in front of me.

The next morning, I found the address online. It was vague, of course-intentionally mysterious. An anonymous invite-only auction held in one of Winston's private mansions.

They called it "The Selection," like it was some royal ceremony and not the most expensive transaction of someone's life.

Still, I went.

The moment I arrived, I realized I was nowhere near ready.

Luxury cars lined the driveway-sleek, black, silent. Security guards in black suits flanked the gates, earpieces in place, faces blank.

I was ushered in with a group of girls, most of them older, all of them stunning. Tight dresses, high heels, full makeup, confident smiles. Meanwhile, I wore a cheap dress from last season and tried to hide the scuff on my only pair of flats.

I didn't belong here. That much was obvious.

"Name?" one of the guards asked at the door.

"Anastasia Beverly," I answered, barely keeping my voice steady.

He checked a list, nodded, and gestured for me to enter.

The mansion swallowed me whole.

It was bigger than anything I'd ever seen. Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. Chandeliers dripping with crystals. Gilded mirrors, velvet drapes, and flower arrangements that probably cost more than my rent. Every corner screamed money.

But underneath the shine, it felt cold. Lifeless. Like a beautiful cage.

Girls were ushered one by one into a smaller lounge where they were examined-yes, examined-by a panel of stern-looking people, mostly older women and one man who I assumed was the family doctor.

I was number 17.

They handed me a slip of paper with my number and asked me to wait. I sat on a velvet sofa, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers trembled in my lap. I tried to steady my breathing.

What if I messed up? What if they didn't pick me?

But that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was realizing that I wanted to be picked.

I needed to be picked.

When it was my turn, I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. The room was colder than the rest of the house, the air sharp with perfume and judgment.

"Name?" the woman at the head of the room asked.

"Anastasia Beverly."

"Hm. Age?" She further asked.

"Nineteen."

They asked me to walk. Smile. Speak. One of them even asked if I had ever been pregnant. I said no, cheeks burning.

They scribbled notes like I was a product on display.

Then they dismissed me.

A woman with a clipboard guided me down a long corridor and into a different lounge where the other "finalists" sat. All of us were dressed in white now-identical silky gowns that reached just below the knees. It felt ceremonial. Or sacrificial. My hands kept twitching.

I counted twelve other girls. All beautiful. All silent. Tension hung in the air like fog.

And then the doors opened-and the air changed.

Every single girl sat up straighter. Conversations died mid-sentence. My spine stiffened instinctively.

Because he walked in. Vincenzo Winston.

The man I'd only seen on the news. Tabloids. The internet. And even there, he looked unreal. But in person?

God help me.

He was devastating.

Tall, lean, dark curls that looked almost too perfect. Piercing grey eyes that scanned the room like a wolf choosing its next meal. A tailored suit hugged his broad frame like it was stitched directly onto him. His expression was blank-but somehow still lethal.

Power clung to him like cologne. He didn't have to say a word. His presence filled the entire room.

My breath caught in my throat.

He stood in front of us and said nothing.

Not a word.

He only walked. One slow, deliberate step at a time, circling the room, studying us like we were cattle. My palms were sweating. My heart thumped so loud I was sure he could hear it.

He passed girl after girl, pausing sometimes, giving some a longer glance. Some girls straightened their shoulders, others batted their lashes or tilted their heads subtly.

My eyes stayed on the floor.

I told myself I didn't care. That I wouldn't be heartbroken if he walked right past me.

But I was lying.

And then... he stopped in front of me.

I froze.

His polished shoes gleamed beneath the lights. I forced myself to look up.

And there they were-those grey eyes. Cold. Sharp. Searching.

Our eyes locked-and something flickered in his gaze.

His gaze dropped briefly to the number pinned to my dress. Seventeen.

Silence stretched out like a rubber band about to snap.

He turned to the coordinator, voice low but cutting through the air like a blade.

"This one."

I blinked. What?

He didn't wait for a response. He turned his back like it was already done.

The coordinator scrambled after him. "Mr. Winston-just her? Are you sure?"

He didn't even glance back. "I said what I said."

I sat there, stunned, unable to move, as the other girls turned to stare at me with wide eyes-and cold hatred.

Whispers rippled through the room.

I felt the heat of their jealousy crawl across my skin like fire.

But I didn't care.

Because he picked me.

Me.

And I had no idea why.

"Am I safe?"