Chosen to Carry

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the clouds still clung to the sky like grief. Maya Kingston sat alone on the edge of a cracked leather chair in the lawyer's office, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn't changed out of the black dress she wore to her parents' and brother's funeral. The hem was still damp from the cemetery grass. Her heels were muddy. Her voice, silent.

Across from her sat Mr. Evans, a long-time friend of the family, now wearing the cold, careful face of a professional. He adjusted his glasses and looked over the legal file.

"Maya," he said gently, "your father left behind one asset: the house. Everything else is debt."

Maya nodded, even though her mind felt miles away. She stared at the wall behind him, blank and beige, and tried not to imagine her brother's laugh echoing down the hallway of their now-empty home.

"The house is fully in your name," Mr. Evans continued, "but there's a condition."

She blinked, slowly focusing. "What condition?"

"The family took out a large loan through GFP Credit Union - for your mother's treatments, your brother's school... and the business." He looked up at her. "Unless that debt is paid in full within sixty days, they will reclaim the house."

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

"How much?"

He hesitated, then passed her the figure. Her breath caught in her throat.

It might as well have been a million. Even ten thousand was too much right now.

"I don't have that," she whispered.

"I know."

Silence stretched between them. The quiet roar of the rain dripping outside made the air feel heavier.

She rose to her feet slowly, gripping the folder tightly. "Thank you," she said, voice brittle.

"If you need help understanding the next steps-"

"I'll figure it out."

She walked out before he could offer sympathy. She couldn't bear another sorry look.

---

That evening, Maya stood in the middle of her parents' living room. The house was quiet now. Too quiet. The photo frames on the mantel stared at her like ghosts.

She fell onto the couch, folder still in hand, and let the tears come. Silent, shuddering sobs that curled her into herself.

She didn't want to lose this house. It wasn't just four walls and a roof. It was *them.* Her father's tools still hung in the shed. Her mother's scarves were folded neatly in the upstairs drawer. Her brother's books still lined the shelves in his room, the spine of each bent from how he read them over and over again.

A flash of memory struck her-

*"We'll be back before she wakes,"* her father said, grabbing his keys, coat already on.

*"Take me with you,"* Maya had begged.

*"Stay here,"* her brother had said with a crooked grin. "You hate hospitals."

Their mother had been fading fast. Maya remembered standing beside the bed, watching her mother struggle to breathe, the beeping of machines and the quiet prayers whispered between nurses.

And she remembered the last words she'd said:

*"Maybe it's time to stop fighting."*

She regretted them the second they left her lips.

Two hours later, her mother was dead.

One hour after that, a call from the police.

Her father and brother never made it to the hospital.

A drunk driver. A rainy road.

Gone. All of them, gone.

---

That night, Maya sat in the dark at the kitchen table. Her phone buzzed. An email.

She almost ignored it - but something in the subject line caught her eye.

*"Immediate Placement Request - Confidential Surrogacy Program"*

Confused, she clicked.

The agency claimed discretion, privacy, and a guaranteed payout. Enough to pay the debt. Enough to keep the house.

The words blurred as she read: *Healthy applicants. Emotionally stable. Preferably no existing children. Contractual only. No future involvement required.*

Her hands trembled.

She could save everything... but at what cost?

She placed the phone down and stared at the wall.

She had nothing left to lose.

***

The hospital room reeked of antiseptic and too many broken promises.

Spencer Callahan stood stiffly at the foot of the bed where his grandfather lay - the man who built the Callahan empire, whose name opened doors, ended careers, and terrified entire boardrooms.

And now, he was dying.

His eyes were sharp despite the frailty of his voice. "You've wasted enough time."

Spencer said nothing.

"If you don't have a child growing inside someone by the end of next month, the will changes," the old man rasped. "It goes to your uncle."

Spencer blinked. "Robert? He's barely part of the company."

"He's *ready.*" His grandfather's voice hardened. "He has a family. You have excuses."

Spencer's jaw tightened. "I've been focused on the business."

"You've been running from commitment." The old man coughed, his breath rattling. "Love failed you? Fine. Then pay for what you need. Hire someone. Produce an heir. That's all that matters now."

A nurse stepped in, urging him to rest. Spencer turned and walked out without a word.

---

Later that night, Spencer poured a drink in his penthouse, the lights of the city flickering below. His thoughts were loud.

Ivy was gone. So were the lies she left behind.

Every woman he tried to love had eventually wanted the same thing - the Callahan name, not the man behind it.

Now his future hinged on a clock. Two months to produce an heir.

Emotionally detached. Efficient. No heartbreak.

His assistant's voice echoed in his memory from earlier:

*"There are agencies that handle this. Surrogates. No strings attached."*

He opened his laptop and searched. Quiet, verified programs. Discreet applicants. Ones who wouldn't talk.

Then he saw her.

Maya Kingston.

A photograph - minimal makeup, tired eyes, but something honest and grounded in her expression.

Her application notes were clear: willing. Healthy. In need of urgent financial help.

She didn't want anything but the payout.

Spencer closed the laptop.

She was perfect.

-

Maya arrived at the fertility agency's downtown office two days after opening the email. Her coat clung to her body, damp from the morning drizzle. She hadn't slept much - torn between fear and the crushing weight of losing everything.

The waiting room was sleek and silent. A receptionist offered her water. Maya declined, nervously clutching the straps of her bag. She wasn't sure what she expected. Sterile walls, hushed tones, maybe a questionnaire and a quiet goodbye.

But instead, a door opened, and in stepped a man.

Tall. Sharp. Dressed in tailored grey and black, like he walked straight off the cover of a magazine.

Spencer Callahan.

He looked at her. Right at her.

And Maya felt like she had just been seen - not inspected, not judged - seen.

"Miss Kingston?" he asked, voice even, but not cold.

She nodded slowly, standing. "Yes."

"I'm Spencer. I asked to meet you personally."

That made her pause. "Why?"

He motioned to the small office beside the lobby. "I believe if we're going to do this... there should be clarity."

Inside, the room was warmer, furnished with soft chairs and a faint scent of sandalwood.

"I won't pretend this is normal," Spencer said once the door closed. "But I'm not looking for normal. I'm looking for a solution."

Maya sat carefully. "You need a child."

He didn't flinch. "Yes. And I understand you need stability."

She nodded. "My family's house. It's all I have left. If I lose it..."

She trailed off. He didn't push her to finish.

"I read your file," he said. "You're healthy. You've never been pregnant. You understand the terms?"

"I carry the child. I have no rights after birth. I'll be compensated in full."

Spencer studied her.

"You're not doing this for the money, are you?"

Maya hesitated. "I'm doing it to keep something that belongs to me. Something I can't lose."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition.

Then, finally, he nodded.

"I'll have my legal team draw up the contract. If you agree, we start immediately."

Maya inhaled. "How soon is immediately?"

"Embryo transfer in two weeks."

She bit her lip. "That fast?"

"I don't have time to waste."

Neither did she.

She rose to her feet. "Then let's not waste it."

They shook hands - firm, cold, transactional.

But neither of them knew that one decision would unravel everything they thought they could control.

-