3. AMAI #4
“Medical condition,” I said finally. “Genetic. Azoospermia. It means I don’t produce viable sperm. It’s irreversible.”
The words tasted like failure in my mouth.
She didn’t react the way I expected—no pity, no awkward sympathy, no uncomfortable shifting in her seat. She just nodded slowly, processing.
“Okay,” she said. “So, this isn’t a choice. It’s the only option.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody knows?”
“Raymond. My personal physician. My dad and brother. Now you.”
She absorbed that. Then, “Why does it have to be a secret?”
I could have lied. Could have deflected. Could have shut her down with the kind of cold precision that made grown men apologize for breathing too loud in my presence.
Instead, I told her the truth.
“Because men in my position can’t afford to look weak,” I said.
“My reputation is built on being untouchable. Invincible. A man who can’t produce an heir is a man with a weakness.
And weakness gets exploited. People I’ve kept in line for years would see an opening.
Rivals would press harder. Allies would reconsider their loyalty.
In my world, perception is power. And this—” I gestured vaguely between us. “This makes me vulnerable.”
“So, you’re trusting me with something that could destroy you,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
She held my gaze. “That’s a lot of trust to put in a stranger.”
“It is.”
“What happens if I miscarry?” she asked. “Do I still get paid, or does the contract?—”
“You get paid anyway,” I said, cutting her off. “The contract protects you. If you miscarry, if there are complications, if anything goes wrong medically—you’re covered. Financially, legally, medically. You walk away whole, no matter what happens.”
“Even if it’s my fault?”
“There’s no fault in biology,” I said. “If your body can’t carry the pregnancy, that’s not failure. That’s just reality. And I’m not in the business of punishing people for things outside their control.”
She studied me for a long moment.
Then, she asked the question that cracked me wide open.
“Do you want a child or just an heir?”
I went completely still.
The question hit something deep—something I’d buried under years of control and carefully constructed walls. I could feel it shifting in my chest, a tectonic plate moving beneath the surface, threatening to split everything open.
Most people asked about money. About logistics. About medical procedures and legal protections and what happened if things went wrong.
Nobody asked about want.
Nobody asked what I was really searching for.
I leaned forward slowly, closing the distance between us until I could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, until I could count the individual lashes framing them, until the rest of the room disappeared, and it was just her and me, and this moment that felt like standing on the edge of something I couldn’t come back from.
“Both,” I said, my voice rough. “I want both. I want a child I can hold, who carries my blood, who I can teach and protect and love. And I need an heir—someone to carry the Landry name forward, to inherit what I’ve built, to make sure everything I’ve fought for doesn’t die with me.
But more than that….” I paused, searching for words I’d never said out loud.
“I need somebody brave enough to know the difference. Brave enough to understand that this isn’t just about biology or money or contracts.
Brave enough to look at who I am—what I am—and not flinch. ”
The air between us was electric.
Charged with something that had nothing to do with the contract and everything to do with recognition—two people who understood survival, who knew what it meant to be stripped bare and still keep standing, who recognized in each other something real in a world built on lies.
Truth didn’t look away.
Didn’t break.
She held my gaze with a steadiness that made my world tilt.
“Then I’m your girl,” she said quietly.
Not I’ll do it.
Not I accept the terms.
I’m your girl.
Like she was choosing me as much as I was choosing her.
Like this was already more than a contract.
“You sure?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sure.”
“Even knowing what I am? What my world looks like?”
“Especially knowing that,” she said. “Because you’re not lying to me about it. You’re not pretending this is something it’s not. You’re giving me the truth—the real truth—and trusting me to handle it. That’s more than anyone else has ever given me.”
Something in my chest cracked completely.
Not broke.
Just… opened.
Like a door I’d kept locked for so long I’d forgotten what was on the other side.
I straightened slowly, putting distance between us before I did something I couldn’t take back.
“Raymond will send the contract within forty-eight hours,” I said, my voice returning to its usual controlled tone. “Read it carefully. If you have questions, call him. If you’re still sure after that, we move forward.”
She stood, smoothing her borrowed dress one last time.
“I’ll be sure,” she said.
And then she walked out of my office, leaving behind the scent of cocoa butter and the weight of her words and the feeling that I’d just made the most dangerous decision of my life.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the door she’d just walked through.
Then I heard Raymond’s footsteps in the hallway.
He appeared in the doorway, legal pad in hand, expression professionally neutral.
“Well?” he asked.
I turned to face him.
“She’s the one,” I said.
Raymond’s eyebrows rose slightly—the only indication of surprise he ever allowed himself. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“She asked good questions,” he said carefully. “Hard questions.”
“She asked the right questions,” I corrected. “Nobody else did.”
Raymond studied me for a moment, and I could see him processing what that meant—not just for the surrogacy arrangement, but for everything that would come after.
“I’ll have the final contract drawn up and sent within forty-eight hours,” he said. “Medical appointments will be scheduled once she signs. Dr. Beaumont is already on standby.”
“Good.”
Raymond hesitated at the door. “Amai?—”
“Don’t,” I said, cutting him off.
“I’m just going to say, be careful. This one’s different.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I met his eyes. “She asked me if I wanted a child or just an heir. Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
Raymond’s expression softened slightly. “And what did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”
“I’m not,” I admitted. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Raymond left, closing the door quietly behind him.
I walked back to my desk and sat down, staring at the empty chair where Truth had been sitting just minutes ago.
The contract was supposed to be simple.
Biology and money. Nine months and a check.
But Truth Renois had just walked into my life and asked me questions that made me tell the truth—about my condition, about my vulnerability, about what I really wanted.
And I’d answered.
Every single one.
That wasn’t simple.
That was dangerous.
And I’d just chosen it anyway.