Chapter 3 Three

• The Romano Fertility Institute is nothing like I expected. It's not a medical office but an entire building of glass and steel that gleams in the morning sun. The kind of place where rich people go to buy the babies they're too busy to conceive naturally.
• I clutch my bag tighter and approach the revolving doors, my reflection distorted in the glass. I look small. I feel smaller.
• Inside, the lobby is all marble and soft lighting. A fountain bubbles in the center. The chairs look like they cost more than my entire apartment.
• I approach the reception desk. The woman behind it wears a crisp white uniform and a perfect smile.
• "Ava Thompson," I say. "I have an appointment at ten."
• Her smile doesn't change. "Of course. We've been expecting you."
• That phrase again. It makes my skin crawl.
• "Please fill these out." She hands me a tablet with forms already loaded.
• I sit in one of the expensive chairs. It's comfortable in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Too soft. Too perfect.
• The forms ask detailed questions about my medical history. My family background. My lifestyle habits. Questions that seem more appropriate for an FBI background check than a medical appointment.
• "Ms. Thompson?" A nurse appears beside me. "We're ready for you."
• I follow her through a door that slides open silently. The hallway beyond is white and spotless. Our footsteps echo on the tile floor.
• "In here, please." She gestures to an examination room.
• Unlike the lobby, this room looks like a standard medical office. Examination table. Sink. Cabinet with supplies. It should be reassuring. It's not.
• "Change into this." She hands me a silk gown. Not paper. Silk. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
• She leaves. I change slowly, folding my cheap clothes carefully. The silk feels cold against my skin.
• I sit on the examination table and wait. The paper beneath me crinkles. The clock on the wall ticks. Ten minutes pass. Twenty.
• Finally, the door opens. A woman in a lab coat enters. She's older, with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes.
• "Ms. Thompson. I'm Dr. Whitman." She doesn't offer to shake my hand. "I'll be conducting your preliminary examination."
• "Nice to meet you," I say.
• She doesn't respond, just looks at her tablet. "Your medical records show no significant health issues. Is that correct?"
• "Yes."
• "No family history of genetic disorders?"
• "No." I hesitate. "At least, not that I know of."
• She looks up. "You're uncertain?"
• "My parents died when I was young. I don't know much about their medical history."
• She makes a note. "We'll need to run additional genetic testing then."
• The examination is thorough and impersonal. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Blood drawn from my arm. Urine sample. Weight and height.
• "Lie back, please."
• She examines me like I'm a machine being assessed for factory work. Efficient. Detached. Her hands are cold.
• "You're in excellent physical condition," she says finally. "Ideal for surrogacy."
• The word makes it real suddenly. Surrogacy. Carrying someone else's child.
• "What happens next?" I ask as I sit up.
• "If you choose to proceed, you'll sign the contract today. Then we'll begin hormone treatments to prepare your body for implantation."
• "How soon would that happen?"
• "Within the month. Our client is eager to proceed."
• Our client. The mysterious person willing to pay $100,000 for my womb.
• "When do I meet them? The parents?"
• Dr. Whitman's expression doesn't change. "That will be determined later. For now, let's focus on your part of the process."
• A nurse enters with more papers. Actual papers this time, not a tablet. A contract, thick with legal language.
• "Take your time to review this," Dr. Whitman says. "A notary will be in shortly to witness your signature, should you decide to proceed."
• She leaves me alone with the contract. I flip through pages of terms and conditions. Medical procedures I don't understand. Legal rights I'm signing away.
• One section catches my eye: "Surrogate agrees to reside at a location of Client's choosing for the duration of the pregnancy."
• I'll have to live somewhere else? The letter mentioned housing, but I assumed that meant they'd pay my rent, not relocate me.
• Another section: "Surrogate agrees to adhere to all dietary, exercise, and lifestyle restrictions as determined by Client's medical team."
• They'll control what I eat? How I live?
• My stomach tightens. This feels less like a job and more like selling myself into temporary servitude.
• But then I see the payment terms. $20,000 upon signing. Another $30,000 at the halfway point. Final $50,000 upon delivery.
• Twenty thousand today. Enough to pay off the eviction notice and start fresh.
• The door opens. A woman with a notary stamp enters.
• "Have you had sufficient time to review the contract?" she asks.
• No. I haven't. I've barely skimmed it.
• "Yes," I say.
• "And do you wish to proceed?"
• I think of my apartment. The eviction notice. The endless job rejections.
• What choice do I have?
• "Yes."
• "Sign here, please." She points to a line at the bottom of the page.
• My hand shakes as I pick up the pen. This is it. No going back after this.
• I sign my name.
• The notary stamps the document. "Congratulations, Ms. Thompson. You're now officially part of the Romano program."
• Congratulations. Like I've won something instead of selling the only thing I have left: my body.
• Dr. Whitman returns. "Excellent. Your first payment will be processed immediately. Now, let's discuss next steps."
• I listen as she outlines what will happen. Hormone injections. Regular checkups. Implantation procedure. It all sounds clinical and cold.
• "When do I move?" I ask.
• "Within the week. We'll send someone to help you pack essentials. The rest of your belongings can be placed in storage."
• A week. My life will completely change in a week.
• "One more thing," Dr. Whitman says. "The client wishes to meet you personally tomorrow."
• My heart jumps. "The mother? Why?"
• "The father, indeed. He prefers to know who's carrying his child." Her tone makes it clear this isn't a request.
• "Okay," I say, because what else can I say?
• I leave the clinic with a folder of instructions and a feeling of heaviness in my arms, like I'm already carrying something that doesn't belong to me.
• The sun is too bright outside. The world too loud.
• What have I done?