3. AMAI #3
“Thank you, Ms. Renois,” he said. “You’ve answered all my questions. I’m going to step out for a moment and confer with my client. He’ll meet with you shortly.”
“Okay.” Her voice was small now. Nervous again. “Thank you. For your time. And for—I mean, thank you.”
She was talking again.
Filling the silence.
I pushed off the wall and moved silently down the hallway, back toward my office.
By the time Raymond found me, I was sitting at my desk, hands folded, expression neutral.
“Well?” I said.
Raymond closed the door behind him.
“She’s perfect,” he said.
I already knew that.
I’d known it the moment I heard her voice.
“Send her in,” I said.
Raymond nodded and left.
I sat there in silence, waiting.
My walls were supposed to be back up by now.
They weren’t.
And when Truth Renois walked through my door, I knew they never would be again.
The door opened.
Raymond stepped aside, gesturing with one hand. “Ms. Renois.”
And she walked in.
The first thing I noticed was the yellow sundress because it didn’t quite fit right at the waist. The second thing was her posture—shoulders back, chin up, like she was walking into a job interview and not a predator’s den.
The third thing was her eyes.
They found mine immediately.
And her breath caught.
I heard it—the sharp inhale, the way her chest rose and held for just a second too long. She was afraid. Good. She should be.
But she didn’t look away.
That stopped me cold.
Most people flinched when they met me for the first time. It was instinctive—the way prey recognizes a predator, even when the predator is wearing a suit and sitting in a leather chair. They’d look down, look away, find something fascinating about the floor or the wall or their own hands.
Truth Renois looked me dead in the eye.
And held.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin, and let the silence stretch.
This was a test.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her standing there in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the sitting room windows. The light caught the gold hoops in her ears, the fine hairs at her temples, the pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
She was terrified.
But she didn’t run.
Raymond cleared his throat softly. “I’ll leave you two to talk.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded too loud in the silence.
Now it was just us.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker.
I could smell her from across the room—cocoa butter and something floral, maybe lotion from a drugstore, maybe shampoo. Underneath that was the faint scent of nervous sweat, the kind that came from walking blocks in shoes that didn’t fit right.
She smelled real.
Human.
Alive in a way that made my head spin.
“Sit,” I said.
My voice came out lower than I intended. Rougher.
She moved toward the chair—one of the wingback leather chairs positioned across from my desk. Her steps were careful, measured, like she was walking across ice that might crack.
She sat.
Smoothed her dress over her knees.
Folded her hands in her lap.
And then—because she couldn’t help herself—she started talking.
“I just want to say thank you for this opportunity,” she said, words tumbling out too fast. “I know you’ve interviewed a lot of candidates and I’m—I mean, I understand this is a big decision and I don’t take it lightly.
I’ve read the entire contract. Twice. With a legal dictionary because I wanted to make sure I understood every single word, and I highlighted the important parts—well, I highlighted most of it actually because it all seemed important—but I understand what you’re asking for and I understand what I’m agreeing to and I?—”
She stopped herself.
Took a breath.
“Sorry. I’m talking too much. I do that when I’m nervous.”
I didn’t respond.
Just watched her.
She shifted in the chair. Uncrossed her ankles. Crossed them again.
“I’m qualified,” she said, quieter now but still filling the silence like it was a physical thing she couldn’t stand.
“I’m healthy. My family has good genetics—no history of complications, no chronic conditions.
I’ve never been pregnant before, but my mama had four kids with no problems, and my grandmother had six.
I work in healthcare, so I understand medical protocols and I’m good at following instructions.
I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do anything that would put a pregnancy at risk. And I?—”
She paused.
Met my eyes again.
“I keep my promises,” she said. “When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.
That’s important to me. My word means something.
So, if I sign that contract, if I agree to carry your baby, I’m not going to change my mind halfway through.
I’m not going to get attached and try to keep the baby.
I understand what this is. A business arrangement. Biology and a check. That’s it.”
The words should have reassured me.
They didn’t.
Because I could hear the truth underneath them—the desperation, the need, the hunger for something better than what she had. She wasn’t lying. She meant every word.
But she was also trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me.
I leaned forward slightly.
Rested my forearms on the desk.
She tensed.
“Why?” I asked.
One word.
She blinked. “Why what?”
“Why are you here?”
“I….” She hesitated. “I need the money. I’m not going to lie about that. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would change my life. It would get me out of my mama’s house, pay off my debt, give me a chance to start over after my divorce?—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She stopped.
Stared at me.
“I asked why you’re here,” I said. “In this room. With me. There are other ways to make money. Easier ways. Ways that don’t require you to carry a stranger’s child for nine months and then walk away like it never happened.”
The silence stretched again.
But this time, it was different.
This time, she wasn’t filling it with nervous words.
She was thinking.
“Because I’m good at hard things,” she finally said.
“I’ve been doing hard things my whole life.
And this….” She gestured vaguely between us.
“This is hard. But it’s also honest. You’re not pretending this is something it’s not.
You’re not asking me to lie to myself about what this is.
You want a baby. I can give you that. And in exchange, you’re giving me a way out of a life I don’t want anymore.
That’s fair. That’s honest. And I can do honest.”
Something in my chest cracked.
Not broke.
Just… cracked.
Like the first fracture in ice that’s been frozen solid for too long.
I sat back in my chair.
Studied her.
She was still nervous—I could see it in the way her fingers twisted together in her lap, the way her breathing was just a little too fast, the way her eyes kept darting to the door like she was calculating how quickly she could run if she needed to.
But she wasn’t breaking.
She was holding.
And that… that was dangerous.
Because I’d built my entire life on control. On walls. On keeping people at a distance so they couldn’t see the cracks, couldn’t find the weaknesses, couldn’t use them against me.
Truth Renois was sitting in my office in a sundress and cheap shoes, talking too much because she was nervous, and I could already feel the walls starting to crumble.
“You talk when you’re nervous,” I said.
It wasn’t a question.
She flushed. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t apologize.”
She stopped.
Looked at me.
“It’s a tell,” I said. “Everyone has one. Yours is talking. That’s useful information.”
“Useful for what?”
“For knowing when you’re lying.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m not?—”
“I know.” I leaned forward again. “Because if you were lying, you’d be quieter. You’d measure your words. You’d try to control the narrative. But you’re not doing that. You’re just… talking. Filling the silence because you can’t help it. That means you’re telling the truth.”
She swallowed hard.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, my voice dropping lower.
“You’re going to go home. You’re going to think about this, really think about it.
Not the money. Not the contract. Not what this could do for your life.
You’re going to think about what it means to carry my child for nine months and then hand that child over to me and walk away.
You’re going to imagine what that feels like.
And if you can do that—if you can sit with that reality and still want to sign—then we’ll move forward. ”
“I’ve already thought about it,” she said quietly.
“No,” I said. “You’ve thought about the money. You’ve thought about getting out of your mama’s house. You’ve thought about starting over. But you haven’t thought about me.”
The air between us shifted.
Charged.
Her breathing quickened.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Walked around the desk until I was standing in front of her.
She had to tilt her head back to look at me.
I could see the pulse hammering in her throat. Could smell the cocoa butter and nervous sweat and something warm and alive and entirely her.
“I mean,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “that for nine months, you’re going to be carrying a part of me inside you. My DNA. My bloodline. My legacy. That’s not clinical. That’s not just biology. That’s intimate in a way you’re not prepared for.”
She didn’t look away.
Didn’t flinch.
And then she asked the question nobody else had.
“Why can’t you do this naturally?”
My jaw tightened.
The silence stretched between us—thick, dangerous, the kind of silence that usually preceded violence or lies. I’d built my entire life on controlling information, on keeping people at a distance, on never showing weakness.
But Truth Renois was looking at me with those kind, stubborn eyes, waiting for an answer she had every right to ask for.