Contract

The contract was thick, its language heavy with legal threats and financial assurances. Luna's hands trembled as she held the pen.

"You'll be taken care of," Mrs. Montenegro assured her, sliding a set of keys across the table. "We've arranged a place for you. Private. Quiet. A driver will take you wherever you need to go. No stress. No questions."

Luna signed.

She didn't ask what the baby's name would be. She didn't ask what happened after the birth. She just wrote her name where they told her and folded herself into silence.

Later that evening, Luna stood outside the hospital again. She slipped into her mother's recovery room, heart aching from all she wasn't allowed to say.

Her mother looked better—color returning to her cheeks, the tubes beside her humming with steady life. "Mama," Luna whispered, taking her hand, "the job I told you about… It's real."

Her mother smiled weakly. "The one that paid the bills?"

Luna nodded. "Yes. They're good people. They've given me a place to stay. I'll be working for them closely for the next few months, but I'll visit as much as I can."

Her mother reached out and cupped her face. "You've always been strong. You saved us."

Luna swallowed the lump in her throat. "You just focus on healing, Mama. That's your only job."

She left a few minutes later, stepping into the sleek black car waiting for her at the curb. The driver opened the door with a quiet nod, and Luna sank into the seat, staring out the tinted window.

She was heading to the house they'd chosen for her. A new place. A new role. A new cage.

But not her dream. Never her dream.

And somewhere in the city… the man whose child she now carried had no idea she existed.

The car stopped in front of a quiet gated house on the edge of Agauzu. It was modern, trimmed with vines, the walls washed in ivory, the gates gold-plated but not loud—elegance that whispered, you don't belong here, without raising its voice.

The driver, Samuel, stepped out and opened her door. He was in his late thirties, polite but distant, with a professional air that said he was used to driving rich people who never spoke unless they had to.

"This is your new residence, Miss Luna," he said. "If you need anything, I'll be stationed nearby."

Luna stepped out slowly, her legs still heavy with everything she couldn't say. Her old life, the dusty one filled with dreams and grapevines, was a thousand miles away—even if only in her heart.

The door opened before she knocked. A woman in a crisp uniform smiled gently. "Welcome. I'm Maria. I'll be managing the household for you. You'll have your privacy, don't worry."

Luna nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Inside, the house smelled of lavender and new furniture. The floors gleamed. There was a soft hum of air conditioning, the gentle whisper of wealth in every corner. A fruit basket sat on the marble kitchen counter. There were flowers in a vase that looked too delicate to touch.

Her room was on the second floor—wide windows, pale curtains, a bed so large she could lie across it sideways.

Everything was beautiful. And everything felt wrong.

That night, Luna stood in front of the mirror wearing a satin nightgown she found in the closet, one of many already arranged in her size. There were designer clothes, silk robes, and new shoes lined up perfectly as if she had been living there all along.

She touched her stomach, still flat, still hers. For now.

In a few weeks, she would carry a child. And when the child came into the world, it would not call her mother. It would not know her voice. It would belong to another woman… and another man who hadn't even met her.

Not yet.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the city lights. Somewhere, her mother was sleeping peacefully for the first time in years. Somewhere, Louis was breathing deeply, heart steady for once. She had bought that peace with her body.

But her soul… her soul had not caught up yet.

Maria brought her food—soft rice with steamed vegetables—and Luna ate in silence, listening to the quiet hum of the house around her. She didn't speak. She barely moved. But her thoughts were loud:

What will they ask next?

What happens when the baby kicks, and I love it anyway?

What happens when I hand it over and feel like I've lost more than I ever gained?

She was grateful, yes. But trapped. Caged in luxury. Tethered to a contract.

Alone in a place where even kindness had strings.

That night, before she turned off the lights, Luna pulled one of the medical books from her bag—the only thing she brought from home that still felt like her.

She opened to a chapter on fetal development. And began to read. If she was going to do this… carry a life… then she'd do it her way. Learn it. Understand it. Respect it.

The house was quiet, too quiet, yet it did nothing to fill the silence pressing against Luna's heart. She sat curled on the edge of the wide bed, her knees drawn to her chest, a medical textbook open in her lap. The pages trembled slightly in her hands, not from fear, but from the weight of what she had agreed to.

She ran her fingers over a diagram of the womb, tracing the outline with slow, careful movements. There it was: the early stages of life, captured in clean lines and Latin labels.

Even if the child isn't mine… she thought, swallowing hard. It will grow in my body.

And that mattered.

It mattered more than anyone else in that cold, polished world seemed to understand. This child would grow beneath her heart, move beneath her skin, feel her pulse and her breath before anyone else's. That bond wasn't imaginary; it was sacred.

Even if, in the end, she would walk away empty-handed.

She leaned her head back against the headboard, letting her eyes flutter shut for just a moment as a single tear rolled silently down her cheek.

Then her phone rang.