Obsessed with His surrogate

I was halfway through my second espresso when Josh slid into the stool across from me. He was grinning like he’d just been told he was the father of the year. He could barely contain his grin. “Well?” I asked, thumbing through work emails. “How’s the incubator?”

Josh snorted. “Really? She’s not a science experiment.”

“She’s not my girlfriend either, so let’s skip the sentiment. Just tell me—is everything on track?”

He let out a sigh. “Yes. She’s fine. The baby’s healthy. The OB says development is right where it should be. You’re going to be a father in six months.”

“And the surrogate? No issues?”

He was silent. Just long enough to annoy me.

“She’s doing well,” he said eventually. “Healthy, stable. Still working part-time, eating like a dietitian, and even doing prenatal yoga. I check in weekly, like you asked.”

I put the tablet down. “Good. As long as she keeps it professional, we’re good.”

Josh gave me a look like I’d just kicked a puppy. “You know, considering she’s carrying your child, you might want to at least meet her.”

“She’s carrying our child,” I corrected. “Biologically speaking, it’s hers too.”

“Yeah, and that’s what bothers me.” Josh leaned in. “You could’ve gone the traditional surrogacy route—embryo transfer. Hired a donor, kept it clinical. But you went the cheaper way. You wanted it, and now you’ve got half control. That’s her DNA in there, too, Nickolas.”

I looked at him. “I didn’t want a donor with a vague medical history or frozen eggs sitting in a lab freezer for five years. I wanted someone proven—fertile, stable, clean. You recommended her. You said she passed every screen.”

“She did. I’m not saying she’s not fit. But I’m not sure about the future. People changed. She’s the biological mother.”

“No, she’s the surrogate. We signed a contract. She gave up all rights at birth.”

“Yeah, well, contracts don’t cover human emotion. Like I said, what happens if she changes her mind?”

“She won’t.”

“You sure about that?”

I reached for my coffee, even though it had gone cold.

I’d thought about that, of course I had. Every risk, every scenario. That’s what I do. I’m a lawyer. I live in the land of what-ifs. But I also know how to close loopholes, how to keep things clean. Predictable.

And yet...

“Just meet her,” he said quietly. “Not as a formality. As the mother of your child.”

“I don’t need that kind of complication.”

“Maybe not,” he said, standing. “Make things more formal and smooth, Nick. Meet the mother to avoid more complications.” He said and left me with the cold espresso.

I groaned inwardly.

I only wanted the child. Not a friendship. Not some weird co-parenting connection. Definitely not guilty about a woman I didn’t ask to care about. The deal was supposed to be clean. She carried the baby. I took over. End of story.

But Josh’s words nagged at me—biological mother. Human emotion.What if she changes her mind?

That was the problem with people. Too many feelings. Too many unpredictable, messy, inconvenient emotions.

I rubbed the back of my neck and stared out the window of the cafe. I watched a mom wrestle a toddler into a car seat across the street. She looked exhausted, wild-haired, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. And still, she was smiling like the kid had given her the damn moon.

Was I missing something?

No. No, this was just cold feet. I really didn’t need to be there. What would that solve? Sit across from her and pretend to care about her prenatal yoga schedule? Compliment her on her glowing skin?

What do I know about glowing skin?

Still… if she used her own egg, if she was technically the mother… maybe it would be smarter to keep her calm. A handshake and a thank-you to keep everything professional.

Just a formality. Keep her cooperative.

I could already hear Josh’s smug voice in my head: See? You’re not heartless, just emotionally constipated.

I sighed and pulled out my phone. Her contact info was buried in the folder Josh had sent me three months ago. I’d never opened it.

But today, I did. Just for a second.

I stared at her name.

Amara Sorell.