The CEO's Triplets: A Love Reborn

Chapter 1

Lía's POV

The monitor tracked my mother's irregular heartbeat, its intermittent beep something I'd long since grown numb to. I had heard it so many times that it blended into the sterile hospital air, just like the hoarse rasp of her voice when she finally looked up at me.

"I thought you weren't coming today," she said, her voice barely a thread.

"Of course I came."

I adjusted her blanket with brisk, practical movements, not bothering to feign a tenderness I didn't possess. It didn't come naturally to me, a fact she knew better than anyone.

"You look worse than I do," she murmured, attempting a smile that faltered halfway.

"Don't be ridiculous," I replied, keeping my gaze fixed on her frail hands, which clutched the sheet as if she were afraid to let go.

She didn't push it. Neither did I. Talking was a luxury neither of us could afford-it wasted strength that was already in short supply.

The mounting hospital bills loomed over us like an inescapable shadow. I didn't need to see the actual numbers to feel their crushing weight: it was there in the nurses' clipped tones, in the doctors' evasive glances, and in the way my mother apologized for the very air she breathed. It was a debt that would kill her long before the illness ever got the chance-unless I did something about it.

I walked back to my apartment with my mind completely blank-or at least, I tried to keep it that way. The second I shut the door behind me, the silence of the empty rooms hit me like an accusation.

I booted up my laptop; a new work email was already waiting in my inbox.

"Tomorrow: Interviews for the surrogacy program. You will receive the candidates. Jorge and Camila Valdez in attendance."

The news shouldn't have shocked me. Rumors had been circulating the hallways of Valdez Enterprises for weeks. The Valdezes had tried everything: endless fertility treatments, failed adoptions. Now, they were looking for a surrogate.

Money was no object to them. It never was. For me, it was everything.

I opened the spreadsheet tracking my mother's medical debts. The total had skyrocketed again, the glaring red number burning into my retinas. I snapped the tab shut before my hands could start to shake.

The compensation they were offering for the surrogacy was enough to wipe the slate clean. I'd caught a glimpse of the figure in a draft contract while prepping documents earlier that week. Enough to cover the treatments, the rehab-even enough to finally give us a breather.

I didn't let myself dwell on it for more than three seconds. Or at least, I tried not to.

But the idea had already lodged itself in my mind, festering like a splinter.

I arrived at the office early the next morning. The interview room was cold and perfectly symmetrical, much like everything else at Valdez Enterprises: immaculate glass walls and minimalist furniture that practically screamed corporate power.

I set out the candidate folders, arranged the water bottles, and perfectly aligned the pens. I skimmed the list of candidates one last time. I didn't have time for anything else.

Camila Valdez walked in first, her heels clicking in a sharp, precise rhythm against the polished floor.

"Thank you, Lía. We needed this ready to go today," she said, her eyes sweeping the room as if searching for a single crack in its perfection.

"It's ready," I replied, keeping my tone perfectly neutral.

She gave a curt nod, but didn't smile. Lately, her mouth was set in a permanent, tense line, worn down by years of bitter disappointment.

Jorge arrived right behind her. Tall and imposing, he possessed the kind of gaze that could evaluate, dissect, and discard a person in the blink of an eye.

"Are they on time?" he demanded, skipping any preamble.

"They're already waiting in the hall," I confirmed.

"Perfect. I have no intention of wasting time today."

Camila turned slightly toward her husband.

"We shouldn't treat this like some cold business transaction, either," she murmured.

"It's a process," he corrected flatly, not even glancing her way. "Not an endless mourning period."

She drew in a sharp breath, letting out a shaky sigh that he completely ignored. But I didn't. I saw the raw pain in her eyes, the yawning abyss between the two of them that seemed to widen with every failed attempt.

The first candidate walked in: a sturdy woman with a hard gaze and shoulders squared by a difficult life.

"I have two kids," she announced before they could even ask, wielding the fact as if it were her entire identity.

Jorge flipped through her paperwork with clinical detachment.

"Reason for applying?"

"Debt. I need the money to start over."

"I understand," he said smoothly, though it was painfully obvious he didn't. A man like Jorge Valdez had never come close to hitting rock bottom.

Camila studied the woman with a mixture of empathy and lingering suspicion.

"Are you absolutely sure about this? It's an incredibly taxing process, both physically and emotionally."

The woman lifted her chin in defiance.

"It's a hell of a lot harder watching my kids go hungry."

Jorge snapped the folder shut. "Next."

There were no polite goodbyes. Just the heavy thud of the door closing behind her.

The second candidate was young-far too young-with tightly intertwined hands and a feverish determination burning in her eyes.

"I'm ready," she stated, repeating it like a desperate mantra.

"That wasn't the question," Jorge replied, not even bothering to look up from her file. "The question is whether you can handle the nine months of pregnancy, the invasive check-ups, and the final handover of the child."

"Yes."

"Good. Because if you're lying, we'll find out. There are strict clauses in the contract for that exact scenario."

Camila finally intervened, her voice soft but laced with steel. "That's enough, Jorge. We aren't interrogating criminals here."

"We are choosing the woman who will carry our child," he shot back. "I have no intention of making another mistake."

The young girl swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly. I felt a lump rise in my own throat, as if her fear were my own.

As the couple continued to bicker, something dark and resolute began to take root inside me. It wasn't some romantic impulse, nor was it a heroic dream. It was pure, cold calculation.

The women walking through that door had real, desperate reasons for being there-broken lives I could easily understand, even if the details of mine were different. But none of them had a mother tethered to a heart monitor, drowning under a mountain of medical bills that were suffocating her faster than the cancer itself.

When I was left alone in the room for a few minutes, I went to grab a fresh stack of application forms. I ran my fingers over the top sheet; the paper felt cold and entirely impersonal.

It could be me.

I didn't want to entertain the thought. But the facts were undeniable: I was healthy, childless, and available. And I was desperate.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped a blank form into my bag, unsure if the impulse was born of bravery, stupidity, or pure madness. Or maybe all three.

I stopped by the hospital again at the end of my shift. My mother was asleep, her frail chest rising and falling with visible effort. I took the seat beside her bed, bathed in the dim, sterile light of the room.

I pulled out the blank form, stared at it for a long moment in the shadows, and then carefully tucked it away again.

"I'm going to get you out of here," I whispered into the quiet room.

Though I honestly didn't know if I was making that promise to her... or to myself.