Nothing's Gonna Change My Love for You

Hannah's POV

"Elite family seeking surrogate mother. $500,000 upon successful pregnancy, remaining $1.5 million after delivery."

The glossy advertisement trembled in my hands as I stared at the words. Two million dollars. The exact amount needed for Peter's experimental treatment at Boston Hospital.

My heart pounded against my ribs as the pieces began to fall into place—Peter's strange behavior, his sudden romantic interest, his persistent questions about hidden Lancaster family assets.

I glanced over at his sleeping form in the bed, medication having finally granted him temporary peace. Just minutes ago, this dying man had asked me to be his girlfriend for whatever time he had left. And now I'd discovered this, hidden among his medical records.

Two million dollars. A life-saving treatment for the son of the man who had saved me.

All it would cost was nine months of my life.

The day had started like any other in Edward's modest home. The small bedroom that had been converted into a makeshift hospital room for Peter felt especially suffocating that afternoon. Medical equipment crowded the space, their constant beeping creating a somber rhythm that matched the heaviness in my heart.

Peter lay in his bed, his once-robust frame now so thin that the blankets barely rose over his body. His skin had taken on that peculiar translucence that comes with prolonged illness, making him look decades older than his twenty-six years.

"You need to take these, Peter," I said softly from the worn armchair beside him, offering water and medication.

His pale lips curved into a weak smile as he shook his head. "What's the point, Hannah? We both know it won't make any difference now."

My throat tightened. Over the past three years, Edward Johnson had become more than just my savior—he'd become family. When the Lancaster mansion burned to the ground, taking my parents and three brothers with it, I had nothing left but the clothes on my back and a mountain of family debt.

Edward, a retired special education teacher with a heart of gold, had taken me in without hesitation. He gave me shelter when I had nowhere to go, helped me find purpose again by recommending me for a position at Sunshine Special Education Center.

"Your father has given up so much for your treatment," I whispered, gently pressing the pills toward him. "Please, take them. If not for yourself, then for him."

Peter's eyes—blue like his father's, but lacking Edward's kindness—studied my face. "Dad's always been a fighter. And he wanted me to be one too." He reluctantly took the pills, swallowing them with a grimace.

I adjusted his pillows, remembering how Peter had been there during my darkest nights after the fire. When nightmares would jolt me awake, my screams echoing through the house as I relived the horror of flames consuming everything I loved, Peter would appear at my door with tea.

He'd sit beside me, telling ridiculous stories until my breathing steadied and the terror receded. His patience during those nights had earned my eternal gratitude.

"Hannah," Peter's thin fingers suddenly gripped my wrist with surprising strength. "I need to ask you something important."

I nodded, giving him my full attention.

"I don't have much time left," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Will you be my girlfriend? For whatever time I have left? I've always—" his voice broke, "I've always wanted more than friendship with you."

The request struck me like a physical blow. Peter and I had never been anything but family. I'd never thought of him romantically—he was Edward's son, my benefactor's child, almost like a brother. But the desperation in his eyes made my heart ache. This dying man was asking for comfort, for the pretense of love in his final days.

"Peter, I—" my voice faltered as emotion choked me. The debt I owed his family was immeasurable. Edward had saved me from homelessness, from despair, had given me a new life when my old one had turned to ash. And now his son was asking for something I could give—even if it was just pretend.

"Please," he whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I don't want to die knowing I never had a chance with you."

My resolve wavered. Would it be so terrible to give him this comfort? To pretend, for his remaining days, that we shared something more than friendship? The gratitude I felt toward Edward and his family pulled at me, nearly compelling me to nod, to agree, to give this dying man his final wish.

He closed his eyes, his face contorting with what I thought was pain. "I really am going to die," he whispered. "The treatment in Boston... it was my only hope."

The weight of helplessness crushed against my chest like a physical pain. My throat constricted as I watched Peter's labored breathing. Here was Edward's only son, slipping away day by day, and I could do nothing to stop it.

The man who had given me shelter when I had nowhere to go, who had held my hand through panic attacks and nightmares, who had helped me rebuild my life from ashes—and I couldn't give him the one thing that mattered: his son's life.

Peter's request echoed in my mind, twisting the knife and deepening my guilt. I couldn't bring myself to pretend romantic feelings I didn't have, even for a dying man. And I had no money, no resources to contribute to the treatment that might save him.

The Lancaster name, once synonymous with wealth and influence, was now just a hollow reminder of all I had lost. My empty pockets and hesitant heart made me feel utterly worthless. What kind of person couldn't offer either love or help to someone who had given her everything?

Peter didn't respond further. The medication was finally taking effect, and his breathing evened out as he drifted to sleep. I watched him for a long moment, my emotions a tangled mess of gratitude, pity, and a strange unease I couldn't quite place.

Once I was sure he was asleep, I stood and walked to the small desk where his medical records were kept. I needed to understand more about his condition—Edward had been vague, breaking down in tears whenever I asked direct questions, and Peter always changed the subject.

I flipped through the file, scanning medical terms I barely understood. Prognosis: poor. Treatment options: limited. Experimental therapy at Boston Hospital recommended.

As I turned a page, something slipped out and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, expecting a medical report or prescription.

Instead, it was a glossy advertisement, folded multiple times. I opened it carefully, and my world shifted on its axis.

Now, staring at the contact information at the bottom of the advertisement, I couldn't help wondering if this might be my only chance to repay the kindness Edward had shown me.

Two million dollars. A life-saving treatment for Peter.