Chapter 16
THE PROPOSITION
SIMONE
The place Liam picked is the kind of café where you’d hide an affair, or end one, or maybe both at once.
It’s raining, of course. The street outside glistens like a wound.
The windows bleed condensation down the glass, and every time a car drives past, the headlights slash across the tables like some kind of cosmic warning.
I’d call the mood funereal, but there are tulips on the tables, and a student barista with blue hair humming along to a jazz playlist. So, it’s just enough to feel anonymous, which is probably the point.
I’m early, but he’s earlier. He’s in a corner booth, hunched but not slouched, in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
There are two mugs between us—one black coffee, one herbal tea—and a square, office-style envelope that doesn’t belong here.
The envelope’s not even pretending to hide itself: it’s upright against the sugar bowl, thick as a murder mystery.
I stand there for a second, trying to decide whether to wave or slink in or just leave. Then I notice how Liam’s eyes seize on my form, already on alert, and I sit down before I can lose my nerve.
The upholstery is slick, like maybe it’s been cleaned a lot lately.
My jeans squeak against it. I shrug off my parka, toss it into the corner, and then my hands just…
hover. I want to tuck my hair behind my ear or smooth my skirt, but the only thing I can think to do is fold them tight in my lap, so I do.
“Hi,” I say, after too long.
He’s silent at first, and then: “Hi.” He pushes the herbal tea my way, like I’m still his favorite guest, and for a second it almost works. My hands want to reach for the mug, but I keep them glued to my knees.
We sit, not talking. Rain peppers the glass.
The espresso machine hisses and shudders.
The barista is listening to something on her headphones now, which is its own brand of mercy.
It’s so private, we might as well be in a sensory deprivation tank, except for the music and the rain and my own skull splitting open.
After a minute, Liam clears his throat. “Thank you for coming, Simone,” he says. He sounds like a doctor delivering bad news.
I blink. “I figured you’d just keep rescheduling until I did.”
A smile flickers—more reflex than emotion. “I would have, yeah.”
I stare at the tea. It’s steaming gently, fogging the rim.
It’s my favorite, chamomile, and I suddenly remember that this man was once so close to me that I genuinely believed that we were in a relationship.
But now, there’s a wall of silence, as if we’re strangers.
A weird, animal tension, like we’re both ready to bolt but too polite to do it.
He leans in, drops his voice to a private register. “Look, Simone, I’m sorry about the other night. I should have told you. I didn’t want you to find out that way.”
I look him dead in the eye, and for once, he’s the one who looks away. I think: you can only hold the gaze of a drowning person for so long before you drown, too.
“I’m not angry,” I say, which is a lie.
He nods. “Of course you’re angry. You have every right to be angry. I get it.”
I want to say something biting, something that would snap the scene in half. Instead I pick up the mug and sip, just to keep my mouth busy. It tastes like over-steeped chamomile and disappointment.
He watches me, and for the first time ever, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Not the usual wolf-at-the-door hunger, not professorial concern. It’s just blank, or maybe exhausted.
“I wanted to see you because…” He gestures at the envelope. “I owe you an explanation. Or at least, a choice.”
A cold little bead of dread rolls down my back. “What’s in there?” I ask.
He slides the envelope across the table. It makes a little friction sound, the kind that makes you want to bite down on a spoon.
“Read it,” he says. No inflection. Like he’s daring me.
I open it. The pages inside are typewritten, not printed from a home office. No creases, no coffee stains. The top page is a letter. It starts, “To whom it may concern,” which is maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, considering the audience.
I scan down. The words jump out like blinking hazard lights: “proposed arrangement,” “compensation,” “academic standing,” “future prospects.” The subtext is as thick as the paper.
It’s a contract.
It’s an actual, honest-to-god contract, except instead of selling my kidney or promising to pay back a loan, it says: if I agree to be Liam’s surrogate—after my “health concerns” are resolved—he’ll guarantee me an A in his class.
He’ll even “provide all necessary medical and emotional support, as well as housing and living expenses during the process.” There’s a whole page dedicated to “non-disclosure,” and a bullet point about “cooperation and good faith.”
It’s worded like a scholarship, but the scholarship is my body.
My hands start shaking. I don’t know if it’s anger or fear or the caffeine or just the way my life seems to keep accelerating toward some catastrophic endpoint. I read the page again, just to make sure it’s real.
I look up. “You want me to carry your child.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want you to consider it. After you’ve had surgery to remove your fibroids, obviously.”
I stare at the words. They look fake on the paper, but there’s nothing fake about the way he says it.
“This is wrong,” I whisper, so low I barely hear it. “I could go to the Academic Committee with this and get you fired.”
He nods, just once. “Yes, you could. But you won’t.”
I want to hit him, or maybe myself, for ever believing he was different. But there’s no room for that now. There’s only the hard, cold reality of the contract, and the way the world suddenly feels like a box getting smaller and smaller.
I say, “You think I’d do this for a good grade? Or is it because surrogates can’t get paid money by law?”
He looks me dead in the eye, and there’s something in his face—something desperate, and raw, and so lonely I almost want to cry for him.
“No,” he says. “I think you’d do it because you want to matter to someone. I think you’d do it because you want to win, even when the deck’s stacked against you. I think you’d do it because you like being in control.”
The rain outside is louder now, the windows running with water. I want to get up, throw the envelope at his head, run until I can’t hear the hiss of his voice in my ears. Instead, I sit, hands trembling, and force myself to meet him glare for glare.
“I’m not a lab rat,” I say.
He leans forward, hands flat on the table. “You’re not. But you’re also not a victim, Simone. You’ve never been.”
I almost laugh, but the sound sticks in my throat.
He says, “I’m not in a rush. We could wait a year, or five, or never. But I wanted you to know the truth. I want you to decide.”
I look down at the contract, then back at him. “You want to own me.”
He shakes his head. “I want a family. And I want you to help me get it.”
I stare at the pages, at the neat signature line at the bottom. There’s a spot for my name, written in his precise hand: SIMONE MARIE MCCALL.
I want to say, “You’re insane.” But what I say is, “What if I say no?”
He shrugs, but his jaw tightens. “Then you walk away. And you never hear about this again. It'll be like it never happened. Like we never happened.”
The words are a slap. There’s nothing else to do but stare at the table, at the mug of untouched tea, at the tiny orange tulip nodding in its glass.
He’s silent for a minute, letting the words hang. Then he stands, shrugs on his coat, and says, “You can keep the contract. Think about it.”
He pauses at the door, then looks back. His eyes are so blue they could freeze water.
“You’re not powerless, Simone,” he says. “You never were.”
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him. The barista glances over, sees me sitting there with the envelope and the mugs, and offers a shy, uncertain smile.
I sit for a long time, reading the contract, over and over, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less monstrous.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, filling the gutters and pounding the roof. I watch the water run in frantic little rivers down the glass, and I think: maybe he’s right. Maybe I like being in control.
But right now, all I want is to be anywhere but here.
The thing about being gutted in public is you have to make an exit.
I stand so fast the chair skids out behind me, a bark of wood against tile.
The contract is stuffed in my bag, and then I drag my coat from the banquette and stuff my arms through it.
The zipper jams halfway and I don’t bother fixing it.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone on my way out.
I just push out into the night, letting the café door bang shut behind me.
The rain hits me like a slap. The sky’s opened up, sheets of water pouring down so hard the gutters spit it right back onto the sidewalk.
I start walking with no plan, eyes down, feet splashing through puddles until the cold has soaked through my socks and turned my toes to ice.
My hair goes from wavy to drenched in seconds.
Mascara bleeds into the corners of my eyes.
Every step feels like it happens underwater. My brain won’t quiet down. There’s a voice inside me looping on repeat: he never loved you. Liam never cared about you. It was all a lie.
I cross the street without looking. Headlights flare, a car horn shrieks, but I keep walking. If the driver hits me, it’s probably less painful than what’s already happened.
Campus is empty—no surprise, given the weather.
The world is just slick black pavement and orange cones of streetlight.
I wind around the admin building, then past the shuttered library, not even thinking about where I’m headed.
My arms wrap tight around my ribs to keep the cold from shattering me apart.