5. AMAI #3
“You think I wanted this?” I continued, my voice shaking now. “You think I wanted to spend the last three years knowing I can’t have kids the way normal men do? That I have to pay a stranger a quarter million dollars just to carry my child because you were too high to think straight?”
“Amai, I didn’t know?—”
“You didn’t care!” My hand slammed against the steering wheel. “You were too busy getting fucked up to care about anything. And when we fought—when you shoved me into that table—you didn’t think about what it would cost me. You didn’t think about anything.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” Kaisen whispered.
“I don’t want your apology.”
“Then what do you want?”
I stared at the contract.
At the future sitting in a manila folder.
At the woman I was about to give it to.
“I want you to stay the fuck out of my business,” I said, my voice flat again. Empty. “I want you to stop asking questions. I want you to let me handle this my way. And I want you to understand that some things don’t get forgiven just because you’re clean now.”
“Amai—”
“We’re done.”
I ended the call.
The silence in the car was deafening.
I sat there at the green light, cars honking behind me, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white.
“Go the fuck around!” I yelled out the window.
Kaisen didn’t understand.
He couldn’t.
Because he still had the option.
He could still have kids the normal way—fall in love, get married, fuck his wife, and nine months later hold his kid.
But me?
I had to hire a surrogate.
I had to sign contracts and pay money and hope that a woman I barely knew would carry my child without breaking under the weight of who I was.
I had to do all of that because one night, years ago, my brother was too high to think straight.
And I’d never forgive him for it.
I pulled forward, ignoring the honking, and merged back into traffic.
Truth Renois was waiting.
And I had a future to secure.
Even if it cost me everything.
Magnolia Gardens Nursing Home sat on the edge of the Seventh Ward like a tired afterthought—beige brick, cracked parking lot, a sign missing two letters, so it read “Magnolia Ga dens.”
I pulled into the lot and parked in a visitor’s spot near the entrance.
The contract sat in a manila envelope on the passenger seat. Fifty thousand dollars in cash sat in a leather duffel in the trunk.
I grabbed the envelope, locked the car, and walked toward the entrance.
The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical wheeze. The smell hit me immediately—antiseptic, overcooked vegetables, and something underneath that smelled like decay masked by air freshener.
The lobby was small. Worn linoleum floors. A fake plant in the corner that had seen better days. A television mounted on the wall playing a game show nobody was watching.
And behind the front desk sat a woman who looked like she’d been waiting her entire life for a man like me to walk through those doors.
She was late twenties, maybe thirty. Light-skinned, hair in a high ponytail with edges laid sharp enough to cut. Nails long, acrylic, painted red. She wore scrubs that were two sizes too small, her cleavage on full display.
The moment I walked in, her entire body language shifted.
She sat up straighter. Smiled wide. Leaned forward so I could see exactly what she was offering.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice dripping with something that made my skin crawl. “Welcome to Magnolia Gardens. How can I help you today?”
I kept my face blank. Professional.
“I’m here to see Truth Renois.”
Her smile faltered. Just for a second.
Then it came back, sharper this time. Fake.
“Truth?” she repeated, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“Yes. Truth Renois. She works here.”
The woman—her name tag said Amber—tilted her head, studying me like I’d just told her I was here to see the janitor.
“You sure you got the right person?” Amber asked, her tone shifting from flirtatious to condescending. “Because Truth don’t really… I mean, she’s not usually the type to have visitors. Especially not—” She looked me up and down, slow and deliberate. “—visitors like you.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared at her until the smile on her face started to crack.
“Page her,” I said, my voice flat.
Amber’s jaw tightened. She picked up the phone on her desk, pressed a button, and spoke into the receiver with barely concealed irritation.
“Truth Renois to the front desk. Truth Renois to the front desk.”
She hung up and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms under her chest so her cleavage pushed up even higher.
“She’ll be up in a minute,” Amber said. Then, under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, “Can’t believe he’s here for Truth big ass.”
The words hung in the air.
I let the silence stretch.
Let her think I hadn’t heard.
Then, I leaned forward, resting my hands on the edge of her desk, and looked her dead in the eyes.
“Say that again.”
Amber’s face dropped.
“I-I didn’t?—”
“You did,” I said, my voice low and precise. “You said it loud enough for me to hear. So, say it again. To my face this time.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
“That’s what I thought.”
I straightened up just as the door to the back hallway opened, and Truth walked through.
She was still in her scrubs—pale blue, wrinkled from a long shift. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. She looked tired. Beautiful. Real.
Her eyes found mine immediately.
Then they flicked to Amber.
Then back to me.
“Amai?” Truth said, her voice uncertain. “What are you?—”
“I’m here to give you something,” I said.
Truth’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced at Amber again, then back at me.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Um. Let me just?—”
“Before you do that,” I said, cutting her off. I turned back to Amber, who was sitting frozen behind her desk. “I want you to know something.”
Amber swallowed hard.
“Truth Renois,” I continued, my voice calm but edged with something sharp, “is under mine now. That means if I ever hear you disrespect her again. If I ever hear you say one more word about her that isn’t professional and respectful, I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand?”
Amber’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
“I said, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good.”
I turned back to Truth, who was staring at me with wide eyes.
“Amai,” she hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the hallway. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Checkin’ shit.”
“You can’t just—” She lowered her voice as we walked down the hallway, away from the front desk. “I need this job. I can’t afford to piss people off.”
I stopped walking.
Turned to face her.
“You don’t need that underpaid, ungrateful ass job anymore.”
I held up the manila envelope.
Truth stared at it. Then at me.
“What is that?”
“The contract.”
Her breath caught.
I gestured toward a door at the end of the hallway. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Truth hesitated. Then nodded.
“Conference room,” she said quietly.
The conference room was small. A table that seated six. Whiteboard on the wall with someone’s half-erased notes about medication schedules. Fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead.
Truth closed the door behind us and leaned against it, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Yes, I did.”
“Amber’s going to make my life hell now.”
“No, she’s not.” I set the envelope on the table. “Because you’re not coming back here.”
Truth’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
I pulled out a chair and sat down. Gestured for her to do the same.
She didn’t move.
“Sit,” I said.
“I’m fine standing.”
I looked at her. Waited.
Finally, she sighed and sat down across from me.
I slid the envelope across the table.
“This is the contract,” I said. “I’ve flagged the sections that changed from the original draft. Read through them. If you have questions, ask.”
Truth opened the envelope slowly, like she was afraid of what was inside.
She pulled out the contract and started reading.
I watched her.
The way her eyes moved across the page. The way her brow furrowed when she hit a section she didn’t understand. The way her lips parted slightly when she realized what she was reading.
After a few minutes, she looked up.
“This protects me more than it protects you.”
“That’s the point.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important to me that you can trust me,” I said. “Or this doesn’t work.”
Truth stared at me for a long moment.
Then she picked up the pen I’d set on the table and signed her name at the bottom of the last page.
I felt something shift in my chest.
Relief. Satisfaction. Something else I didn’t have a name for.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. Sent a quick text to Priest. I texted him on the way to have him meet me with the cash.
Bring it in. The thirsty bitch at the desk can tell you how to find us.
A knock on the door.
I stood and opened it.
Priest was standing there, holding the leather duffel.
He handed it to me without a word, then disappeared back down the hallway.
I set the duffel on the table in front of Truth.
Unzipped it.
Her mouth dropped open.
Fifty thousand dollars in cash. Stacked in neat bundles. Wrapped in rubber bands.
“What—” Truth’s voice cracked. “What is this?”
“Your first payment,” I said. “Fifty thousand.”
“But I’m not pregnant yet.”
“You signed the contract. That’s confirmation enough for me.”
Truth stared at the money like it might disappear if she blinked.
“I can’t—” She shook her head. “I can’t just take this.”
“You already did. You signed.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “I can’t just drop everything because you dropped some cash on me. I have responsibilities. I have bills. I have?—”
“I know,” I said, cutting her off. “And I respect that. I would never try to take away your independence. But with everything you’re about to go through—IVF, hormone treatments, pregnancy—you can’t keep working here. It’s not safe. It’s not practical.”
“That may be true,” Truth said, her voice firm. “But I can’t just walk away from my life because you decided it’s time.”
I studied her.
Most women would’ve taken the money and run.
But not Truth.
She was pushing back. Holding her ground.
I respected that.
“Fair enough,” I said. “But either way, you can’t have fifty racks on you. And you sure as hell can’t get on the bus with that type of cash. So, you need to tell whoever you report to that you’re done for the day.”
Truth opened her mouth to argue.
Then closed it.
She looked at the money again.
Then at me.
“You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke about money.”
She let out a long breath. Ran her hands over her face.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. I’ll tell my supervisor I’m leaving early.”
“Good.”
She stood up, grabbed the duffel, and zipped it closed.
Then she looked at me, her expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is just the beginning.”
Truth held my gaze for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
And walked out of the conference room to quit her job. She didn’t know that’s what she was doing, but I wasn’t letting her step foot in this hellhole again.