When Harper grows tired of being unable to save her ailing father, she decides to make an unprecedented offer: a surrogate gestational carrier for a lover intent on saving his family legacy. In exchange for the money, Will Trenton, a handsome, single millionaire, offers to carry his child naturally—only to realize that the price tag is higher than she expected...
A shiny black car cast its belated shadow on the road leading to the mansion. Harper stood in front of the massive gate, breathing a sigh of relief, her hand trembling as she married herself for the first time into a life where her heart was on her tongue. Until now, she hadn't known the depth of what she was offering—but today she stood at a crossroads: saving her father or saving herself.
She climbed the dark stone stairs, the wood of the massive door trembling beneath her fingers. Inside the negotiating room, Will Trenton sat behind a short desk, dimly lit and angled. He wore a dark suit, his gaze hidden behind the legs of his glasses, and he looked as cold as ice, as if the contract between them was his only concern.
The sound of the pen moving across the paper echoed. Harper shook it with a trembling hand and began:
— "I am Harper Grey, and it is my honor to be your surrogate."
She saw the pearly sheen of surprise in his eyes, then returned his gaze to the contract file.
— "...I will carry your child in the natural way. I understand that the agreement is entirely legal, and I will not ask for any personal commitments from us... I only ask for guarantees for my father's health and dignity and for his life to be saved." She looked into his eyes with all her courage, "But let me be clear: I asked that you not be attached to me. Is that right?"
A long silence. The room suffocated from the words that had been spoken, and they would have exploded if they had been anything other than this stillness.
After a few moments in which the sound of a slow breathing escaped, Will set his pen aside.
— "Yes, no emotion. Just the legal agreement." His voice was firm, low, and decisive.
His words were etched in the air, and some of her heart's warmth was extinguished in them, intentionally or unintentionally.
Harper signed with a soft red imprint, the light close to a candle reflected in its droplet. She handed him the last page of the contract, and he stood and gently held it. They shook hands, then prayed that each of them would feel the calm that lurks within them.
Walley left, reopening the door behind him, and Harper's gaze fell on a family photograph that had never left its place. The painting of his heart: his hand on his young son's shoulder—perhaps the greatest reason behind everything she did.
As she descended the stately corridors, the two feelings mingled in her chest. The gain: her hands had carried death and his father's illness. But the loss: a warmth that words could not extinguish, and a Spanish sigh of gratitude that shared her chest with the path of his cold heart.
Outside, she turned toward the palace garden. Amidst the sun-baked stones and the lightness of the trees, she forced herself to say something vaguely silent:
"This agreement may be more arid than the assassin, but it might set us free."
She didn't notice a shadow behind her, where Will stood a few meters away, silently watching her. His gaze stopped at her lips, where the growing grass trembled, and a slight frown settled over his face. His heart—though he hadn't yet acknowledged it—gave him its first sharp beat.
He raised his head, turned away, and disappeared.
Harper's head was filled with thoughts of the South, her insides dancing with wild pulses:
"A pact without feelings... but does my heart hear it?"