14. AMAI
AMAI
Ididn’t sleep after I hung up.
Didn’t even try.
I sat in my office with the lights off, staring at the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows as dawn broke over New Orleans. The skyline turned from black to gray to gold, and I watched it happen without moving, my phone still in my hand.
Truth’s voice echoed in my head. The way she’d apologized like her body failing was a personal offense against me. The way she’d asked why I was still committed, like the answer wasn’t obvious. Like I was the kind of man who walked away when things got difficult.
I wasn’t.
I’d told her that. Told her I wasn’t going anywhere. And I’d meant it.
But words were cheap. Words were what men like Phillip used to manipulate and control. Words were what my father wielded like weapons to keep people in line.
I didn’t deal in words.
I dealt in action.
At 6:47 AM, I showered and dressed. Black slacks, white button-down, no tie. Professional but not formal. I made coffee I didn’t drink and stood at the kitchen island reviewing the contract Raymond had drawn up months ago.
Payment Structure: $50,000 upon confirmed pregnancy via blood test. $50,000 at beginning of second trimester. $50,000 at beginning of third trimester. $100,000 upon successful delivery.
The language was clear. Designed to protect both parties and ensure compliance with the terms.
Truth hadn’t met the first milestone.
The transfer had failed.
According to the contract, she was owed nothing.
I set the contract down and picked up my phone.
At exactly 7 AM, I called Dr. Beaumont’s office. Her receptionist answered on the second ring, professional and chipper in that way medical office staff always were.
“Dr. Beaumont’s office, how may I help you?”
“Amai Landry. I need to speak with Dr. Beaumont.”
“Mr. Landry, Dr. Beaumont doesn’t arrive until eight. Would you like to leave a message or schedule?—”
“Tell her it’s urgent. She’ll take the call.”
A pause. Then, “One moment, please.”
I waited. The hold music was some instrumental jazz that grated against my nerves. I paced the length of my kitchen, counting the seconds until the line clicked back to life.
“Mr. Landry.” Dr. Beaumont’s voice was calm, the voice of someone who’d been woken early but wouldn’t complain about it. “What can I do for you?”
“When can we do the next transfer?”
Silence. Then, “I assume you’re referring to Ms. Renois?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Mr. Landry, I understand you’re eager to move forward, but Ms. Renois needs time to recover. Physically and emotionally. A failed transfer is?—”
“How long?”
Another pause. I could hear her choosing her words carefully. “I’d recommend waiting one full cycle. About six weeks. Her body needs to reset, and frankly, she needs time to process what happened. Failed transfers are devastating for surrogates. The hormones, the hope, the?—”
“What does she need?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What does Truth need?” I clarified, my voice sharper than I intended. “To recover. To be ready. What does she need?”
Dr. Beaumont was quiet for a long moment.
When she spoke again, her tone had shifted—less clinical, more human.
“Rest. Support. And honestly? She needs to know you’re still committed.
She’s going to blame herself even though it’s not her fault.
That’s what surrogates do. They internalize the failure as a personal inadequacy.
She needs to know that you’re not looking for someone else. That you still believe in her.”
I processed that. Filed it away with everything else I knew about Truth—her fear of being replaced, her terror that her body had let me down, the way she’d apologized like she owed me something.
“I’ll handle it,” I said.
“Mr. Landry?—”
“Six weeks. We’ll schedule the next transfer then.”
“I’ll have my office reach out to coordinate?—”
“Good.”
I ended the call before she could say anything else.
Stood there in my kitchen with the morning light streaming through the windows and the contract still spread out on the counter in front of me.
Payment upon confirmed pregnancy.
I picked up my phone again. Scrolled to Raymond’s number. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Send Truth the first installment anyway.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
“The fifty thousand. Send it today.”
“Amai.” Raymond’s voice sharpened, the sleep falling away. “The contract explicitly states payment upon confirmed pregnancy. The transfer failed. She didn’t meet the milestone. If you pay her now, you’re setting a precedent that?—”
“I don’t care what the contract says.”
“You should care. This is a legal document designed to protect?—”
“Send her fifty thousand dollars. Today.”
“Amai, listen to me. If you deviate from the contract terms now, you’re opening yourself up to?—”
“She went through hell for two weeks.” My voice was flat.
Cold. The tone that ended arguments. “Hormone injections. Bloodwork. Egg retrieval. The transfer. The waiting. She did everything right. Her body did everything right. The embryo didn’t implant.
That’s not her fault. And I’m not going to let her think I’m walking away because of something she couldn’t control. ”
Raymond was quiet for a long moment. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, could practically see him sitting up in bed and rubbing his face, trying to figure out how to talk me out of this.
“You’re breaking your own contract,” he finally said.
“I’m aware.”
“This sets a dangerous precedent. If she doesn’t get pregnant on the next transfer, or the one after that, she’s going to expect?—”
“Then I’ll pay her every time. I don’t care.”
“Amai—”
“She’s getting paid, Raymond. That’s not a negotiation. That’s an order. Send the money today, or I’ll do it myself.”
Silence.
Then, “Fine. I’ll wire it this morning.”
“Good.”
I hung up before he could argue further.
Set my phone on the counter and stared at it for a long moment, my mind already moving to the next step. The money would hit her account by noon. She’d see it. She’d know what it meant.
But I needed to make sure she understood.
I picked up my phone again and opened my messages. Typed quickly, no hesitation.
Check your account.
Sent.
Then another message immediately after.
Rest. We try again in six weeks.
I set the phone down and waited.
Didn’t expect a response right away. It was barely past seven in the morning. She was probably still asleep, exhausted from crying herself unconscious a few hours ago.
But I needed her to see it when she woke up.
Needed her to know I meant what I’d said.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Alexis showed up in my office. She’d slept over, and I didn’t hesitate to leave her ass in the bed when Truth called.
I was reviewing construction contracts for the Bywater development when she walked in.
I looked up from the contract. “Good morning.”
Alexis walked in wearing a cream-colored dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, her makeup flawless. She looked like she belonged in a boardroom or a gallery opening—polished, professional, beautiful.
She closed the door behind her with a soft click.
“Hey,” she said, her voice warm. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You are.” I set down my pen and leaned back in my chair, studying her. “But you’re here now. What do you need?”
She crossed the room slowly, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. When she reached my desk, she didn’t sit. Just stood there with her hands clasped in front of her, looking at me with those hazel eyes that had pulled me in at the gallery.
“I wanted to talk to you about the other night,” she said.
I waited.
She shifted her weight slightly. “When you got that call. You left the bed and didn’t come back.”
There it was.
I kept my face blank. “And?”
“And I just….” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I was worried. I thought maybe something was wrong.”
I studied her for a long moment. Watched the way she held herself—open, concerned, vulnerable. The performance was good. Almost believable. But I’d been playing this game longer than she had, and I knew exactly what this was.
A test.
A boundary push disguised as care.
“My phone,” I said, my voice flat and cold, “is not up for discussion.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Amai, I wasn’t trying to?—”
“Yes, you were.” I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “You came to my office to ask me about a phone call I took. That’s not worry. That’s interrogation.”
“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice softening. “I was just concerned. You seemed upset, and I care about you. Is it wrong to want to make sure you’re okay?”
And there it was. The innocent act. The wide eyes, the soft voice, and the implication that I was being unreasonable for not wanting to explain myself.
I hated when she did this shit.
Hated the way she wrapped manipulation in concern and expected me to fall for it because she looked good doing it.
But I didn’t let any of that show on my face.
“I appreciate your concern,” I said, my tone measured and professional. “But if my phone is going to be a problem for you, then our relationship is a problem.”
She blinked. “Relationship?”
“Yes.”
“Amai.” She moved closer, her voice dropping. “You haven’t given me a reason not to trust you. I’m not accusing you of anything. I just—I didn’t know we were calling this a relationship. We haven’t had that conversation.”
I held her gaze. “Well, it is.”
The shift in her expression was immediate. The concern melted away, replaced by something softer. Warmer. She smiled—genuine this time—and moved around the desk until she was standing in front of me.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then it is.”