Chapter 1
Hannah's POV
The small bedroom in Edward's modest home had been converted into a makeshift hospital room. Medical equipment crowded the space, the constant beeping of monitors 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 made a rise over his body. His skin had taken on that peculiar translucence that comes with prolonged illness, making him look older than his twenty-six years.
I sat in the worn armchair beside him, the same chair I'd spent countless hours in over the past weeks. "You need to take these, Peter," I said softly, offering him 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 house 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.
Before I could respond, Peter changed the subject abruptly. "Is there really nothing left from your family's estate? No hidden accounts or properties the fire didn't touch? Something that could help with my treatment?"
The abrupt shift jarred me. This wasn't the first time he'd asked about potential Lancaster family assets, always with that same hungry look in his eyes.
"Peter, I've told you everything," I said gently. "The Lancaster fortune was gone even before the fire. My father's investments failed one after another, and we had to sell everything. We were renting that little house when the fire happened." I swallowed the lump in my throat, remembering how we'd lost even the few cherished possessions we'd managed to keep.
"What about distant relatives? Family heirlooms?" His voice had an edge to it now, his fingers tightening around my wrist.
"There's nothing," I repeated, carefully extracting my hand from his grip. "Everything's gone."
He closed his eyes, his face contorting with what I thought was pain. "So I really am going to die," he whispered. "The treatment in Boston... it was my only hope."
Guilt washed over me in waves. The experimental treatment at Boston Hospital cost millions—money Edward had emptied his retirement accounts trying to gather. He'd even mortgaged his home, this modest house that had become my sanctuary.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, genuine tears forming in my eyes. The weight of helplessness crushed against my chest like a physical pain. My throat constricted as I watched Peter's labored breathing.
His two requests echoed in my mind, each one twisting the knife of guilt deeper. 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. 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, 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. More than enough for Peter's treatment.