Chapter 1

Hannah's POV

"Please, Hannah. Be my girlfriend. For whatever time I have left."

Peter's thin fingers gripped my wrist with surprising strength as he lay in his makeshift hospital bed. His once-handsome face was gaunt now, skin stretched tight over cheekbones, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made me shrink back in my chair.

"I—I don't know what to say," I stammered, instinctively pulling my hand away. The small bedroom in Edward's modest home suddenly felt airless. The medical equipment crowding the space seemed to close in around me, their beeping accelerating to match my heartbeat.

This was Peter, Edward's son. The man who had sat with me through countless nightmares after the fire. The same person who had made me tea and told ridiculous stories until I could breathe again. But he had never been—could never be—more than family to me.

"I've always wanted more than friendship," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't let me die knowing I never had a chance with you."

I shifted uncomfortably in the worn armchair beside his bed. How could I refuse a dying man's request? Especially when that man was the son of Edward Johnson, the retired special education teacher who had saved me from homelessness after the Lancaster mansion burned to the ground, taking my parents and three brothers with it.

"Peter, I care about you deeply, but—"

"Is it so much to ask?" His voice cracked. "After everything Dad and I have done for you?"

The words hit like a slap. Three years of gratitude and obligation settled on my shoulders like a physical weight. Edward had given me shelter when I had nowhere to go. He'd helped me find purpose again by recommending me for a position at Sunshine Special Education Center.

And I couldn't give his son this one comfort?

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. Here was Edward's only son, slipping away day by day, and I could do nothing to stop it. 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.

"You need to take your medication," I said softly, offering him water and pills, desperate to change the subject.

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."

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

Peter reluctantly took the pills, swallowing them with a grimace. "Dad's always been a fighter. And he wanted me to be one too."

I adjusted his pillows and watched as the medication gradually took effect. His breathing evened out as he drifted to sleep. I sat watching 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, my eyes widening as I read:

"Elite family seeking surrogate mother. $500,000 upon successful pregnancy, remaining $1.5 million after delivery. Strict confidentiality required. Genetic screening mandatory. Contact information enclosed."

My hands trembled as I held the paper. Two million dollars. The exact amount needed for Peter's experimental treatment.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine helping both Peter and Edward—the people who had saved me when I had nothing. It seemed almost too perfect a solution.

As I looked at the contact information at the bottom of the advertisement, I couldn't help thinking this might be my only chance to repay Edward's kindness.

I glanced once more at Peter's sleeping form, then at the advertisement in my trembling hands. Before I could second-guess myself, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the number listed at the bottom of the page.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would wake Peter. One ring. Two rings. Three. With each passing second, my finger hovered closer to the end call button.

Just as I was about to hang up, there was a click, followed by silence. Then a man's voice came through—cold, clipped, and utterly businesslike.

"How may I help you?"

My breath caught in my throat at the coldness in his voice. For a moment, I couldn't speak.

"Hello?" the man prompted, impatience evident in his tone.

"I'm—" My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. "My name is Hannah Lancaster. I'm calling about... about the advertisement."

"Which advertisement?" His voice remained detached, clinical.

I swallowed hard. "The one about... about the surrogate mother position." The words felt strange on my tongue, as if I were discussing someone else's life, someone else's body.

There was a brief pause, and I heard papers rustling in the background. "Ah, yes. The surrogacy opportunity." His tone shifted slightly, becoming more professional. "Are you calling to apply for the position, Ms. Lancaster?"

"I'm... interested," I managed, moving toward the window to put some distance between myself and Peter's sleeping form. "But I'd like to know more about the family first. Who exactly would I be... carrying a child for?"

"I'm afraid that information is confidential until you've passed preliminary screening," he replied smoothly. "The family in question values their privacy above all else. What I can tell you is that they are one of the most prominent families in the country, and they are willing to compensate generously for the right candidate."

"But surely I have a right to know something about them before I make such a decision?" I pressed, my voice barely above a whisper to avoid waking Peter.

"Of course. After signing confidentiality agreements and passing initial health screenings, you would meet with a family representative." He paused. "Ms. Lancaster, are you formally applying for the surrogacy position, or is this merely an inquiry?"

I turned back toward the bed, where Peter lay in fitful sleep. Behind him on the nightstand sat framed photos of Edward—kind, generous Edward who had given everything he had to save his son. Edward, who had saved me when I had nothing.

"Ms. Lancaster?" the man prompted.

I took a deep breath, steadying my resolve. "Yes, I'm applying for the position."