Chapter 2
Hannah's POV
After calling the number on the advertisement and going through two rounds of anonymous online screening, I was brought to this place. They said this was the final interview.
I sat rigid in the cold metal chair, my hands folded nervously on my knees. The spotlight above me was mercilessly bright, making it almost impossible to keep my eyes fully open. It burned down on me like an interrogation lamp from a police procedural, creating a stark divide between the illuminated circle where I sat and the darkness that surrounded it.
The room had been deliberately designed to feel like an interrogation chamber. I was placed in the light, vulnerable and exposed, while those evaluating me remained hidden in the shadows. Though I couldn't see them clearly, I could make out silhouettes—at least three figures. Two men and one woman, judging by their voices.
"She's quite beautiful," a man's voice commented from the darkness. "The bone structure is excellent."
"Harvard education. Fallen aristocracy from one of America's oldest families," another voice added, as if I weren't present to hear them discussing me like a specimen.
"Turn around, dear," commanded the woman's voice. Her tone left no room for refusal.
Rising shakily to my feet, I slowly turned in a circle, feeling their eyes examining every inch of me. The humiliation burned hotter than the spotlight. I was being assessed like livestock at an auction, my worth determined by my physical attributes and breeding potential.
"Good figure. Healthy. How old are you again, Miss Lancaster?" Her voice cut through the darkness.
"Twenty-five," I answered, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
"Perfect childbearing age," one of the men remarked. "And her background is impressive. The Lancasters were quite prominent before their fall."
I felt sick to my stomach, like a prize sow being evaluated for breeding. My hands trembled slightly, and I clasped them tighter to hide it. The rational part of my brain reminded me why I was here: Peter needed that experimental treatment. Two million dollars would not only cover his medical expenses but would also help Edward keep his house. I repeated this to myself like a mantra.
At least sleeping with one man for money was better than becoming a prostitute and sleeping with many, I thought bitterly. The justification felt hollow, but I clung to it anyway.
"Have you done anything like this before?" The woman's voice was sharp, probing.
I raised my chin slightly. "No, Ma'am. I have not."
"Then why now?"
I took a deep breath before answering. "I need the money to save someone's life."
"A lover?" She pressed.
"No," I replied firmly. "The son of the man who took me in when I had nothing. He needs an experimental treatment that costs millions. His father has given everything for me. I owe them this."
She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my honesty. "The total compensation is two million dollars. You will receive an initial payment of five hundred thousand upon confirmation of a viable pregnancy, which should be more than enough for your immediate needs. The remaining one and a half million will be paid once the child is born."
My mind drifted back to the years after the Lancaster family's collapse. After the fire claimed my family, I discovered that our family fortune had already been depleted through a series of bad investments and a hostile takeover. The prestigious Lancaster name opened no doors for me. In fact, it seemed to close them.
Despite my Harvard degree in psychology, no company would hire me. The Lancaster scandal made me toxic. I couldn't even get hired as a janitor. I was days away from accepting a position as a nightclub hostess—the kind that involves more than just seating guests—when Edward Johnson appeared.
When he heard about my situation, he offered me his spare room and helped me secure a position at Sunshine Special Education Center, where he had taught before retirement. His kindness saved me from a desperate path.
"And living with a blind man should be familiar territory for you, given your work with special needs children," he added.
I thought about my students—children with various disabilities whom I taught daily. But this would be different. Very different.
"The terms are simple," the woman continued. "You will spend five days with my grandson. Your goal is to conceive an heir. If successful, we'll relocate you to our private clinic in Switzerland."
It sounded straightforward. Five days with a man, the chance to carry a child I would ultimately surrender, in exchange for financial security. A rational transaction.
But as someone slid the contract toward me from the shadows, I noticed an additional clause that made my stomach tighten: "The surrogate agrees to comply with all requests made during the cohabitation period."
"What does this mean exactly?" I asked, pointing to the clause.
A throat cleared somewhere to my right. "The gentleman in question was recently blinded in an accident. He's...having difficulty adjusting. He's refused professional assistance and has been, frankly, violent toward previous caretakers."
"You're asking me to be both surrogate and caretaker to a volatile blind man?" My voice remained steady despite my rising alarm.
"Just for five days. Your experience with special needs education makes you uniquely qualified," the elderly woman said. "And he needs someone who won't break at the first harsh word."
I hesitated before asking, "May I at least know his name? If I'm to spend five days with him."
The question hung in the air. The figures in shadow seemed to exchange glances, though I couldn't see their faces clearly.
"I understand your need for discretion," I continued, my voice steady. "But if I'm to care for someone with volatile emotions, knowing something about him seems necessary. Professional caregivers always receive basic information about their charges."
The elderly woman considered this, her rings catching the light as she drummed her fingers against the desk. "You make a fair point, Miss Lancaster. Very well. His name is Finn Sterling."
My heart sank into my stomach. Finn Sterling. The name wasn't unfamiliar to anyone who read newspapers or moved in certain circles. Rumors followed him like shadows—a man who operated outside the law, who solved problems with violence rather than negotiation. Some said he'd spent years in Europe's criminal underworld before mysteriously returning to claim his birthright. And now he was blind.
I'd worked with enough trauma cases to know that disability often intensified existing personality issues. A dangerous man robbed of sight wouldn't become less dangerous—he would become unpredictable, cornered, and therefore more lethal. Five days suddenly seemed an eternity.
I weighed my options silently.
"I understand," I said finally, reaching for the fountain pen.
The elderly woman smiled thinly, satisfied. "Someone will collect you tomorrow morning at eight. Pack lightly."
Just as the pen left the paper, slow, deliberate applause echoed through the room. I froze, my spine stiffening as the sound came from a door behind me I hadn't even noticed.
"What a brilliant deal," drawled a male voice—cold and dripping with mockery.