Surrogate Lover Read online

  Surrogate Lover

  Clara Reese

  Copyright © 2019 by Clara Reese

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To learn more about Clara Reese and her books, visit her website: https://clarareese.com

  Contents

  Blurb

  1. Katrina

  2. Charlotte

  3. Katrina

  4. Charlotte

  5. Katrina

  6. Charlotte

  7. Katrina

  8. Charlotte

  9. Katrina

  10. Charlotte

  11. Katrina

  12. Charlotte

  13. Katrina

  14. Charlotte

  15. Katrina

  16. Charlotte

  17. Katrina

  18. Charlotte

  19. Katrina

  20. Charlotte

  21. Katrina

  22. Charlotte

  23. Katrina

  24. Charlotte

  25. Katrina

  26. Charlotte

  27. Katrina

  28. Charlotte

  29. Katrina

  30. Charlotte

  31. Katrina

  32. Charlotte

  33. Katrina

  34. Charlotte

  35. Katrina

  36. Charlotte

  Also by Clara Reese

  Blurb

  Two years ago, billionaire Charlotte Monroe's wife died in a car accident. It's time for Charlotte to honor her beloved's last wish and have a baby. All she needs is a surrogate. On paper, Katrina is perfect. She's healthy, smart, and most importantly, is willing to follow Charlotte's unusual demands.

  Then Charlotte brings the younger woman into her home and everything changes.

  Katrina awakens a dark desire within Charlotte that she has suppressed for years...one that she hid even from her deceased wife. Taking what Katrina freely offers isn't an option. Falling in love will only lead to ruin. Especially when Katrina is keeping secrets that could destroy both of them.

  1

  Katrina

  Past Due.

  This entire pile is all past due, and I hate it. As hard as I try to keep on top of everything, it seems as though nothing wants to go my way.

  “Yes,” I say to the woman on the other end of the line, a collections agent for my power bill. “I can pay one-fifty tomorrow and will have the other two hundred in two weeks.”

  This is the fourth month in a row I have had to call some company and make some form of arrangement. At least this time I know that my power won’t just get shut off on me again. Unless of course I can’t make the second payment.

  She’s polite and seems to be understanding of my case. I’m sure there is a note on my account by now. Some sort of red flag about how this always ends up being the situation. Though I always pull through and manage to keep the arrangements I make, so…there’s that.

  Hanging up I look over at the stack of bills on the coffee table. I don’t really want to open them. Don’t want to make the amount due real by looking at it.

  So I don’t.

  Instead I pick up the notice that was taped to my door by my landlord. I’m a few months behind on my rent, only really giving him what I can when I can. In the beginning he was just as understanding as the bill collector. Now…not so much.

  Whenever he comes knocking, I pretend like I’m not home. I just sit on the couch and pray that he won’t come into the apartment to see if I’m simply ignoring him. I’ve also gotten really good at avoiding him in the halls. That is a trick in and of its own, since he lives in the building and always seems to be around when I need to go out.

  Ring.

  I answer my phone on the first ring. Not even paying attention to the number, though I probably should since it could have been the landlord, but I am waiting for callbacks from multiple jobs.

  Please stay on the line, this is an important message for Katrina-

  I hang up. It can’t be that important if there isn’t a real person on the other side of the line. If it is then they’ll probably call back and I can let it go to voicemail.

  I fix myself a coffee and take stock of what’s in the fridge. It’s not much: half a bottle of ketchup, less than half of a gallon of milk, eight eggs, and an apple. The cupboards aren’t much better. I haven’t been able to do a decent grocery run in about the same length of time as paying my rent.

  It wasn’t always so bad. Taking my mug, I make my way over to the window and stare out into the busy street below.

  I used to have a decent paying job. Used to be able to stay on top of my bills without working myself to the bone. Of course I also had an abusive boyfriend. Seems like I can’t win.

  Until I did. Grady, for all his success and the picture perfect life we seemed to have, was an abrasive, abusive asshole.

  Of course no one else thought he was. All they saw was the picture he set. The doting boyfriend, the best friend, the ideal son. Grady always knew the right words to say in public and the right places to hit in private.

  That’s how abusers work. How they get away with it for so long. I was so beat down and under him with no one to turn to. It was a nightmare.

  Finally being able to get away from him was a breath of fresh air. I felt so relieved when the judge’s gavel fell and sentenced him to eight years in prison. It isn’t a long time, but it’s eight years that I won’t have to look over my shoulder or jump at every shadow.

  Now that he was away he couldn’t find me. He couldn’t follow me. He couldn’t try and get me to come back to him.

  I carry a bottle of pepper spray and a bottle opener in my purse for protection. I took a job as a waitress at a restaurant that serves mainly breakfast and lunch items. I might go to work in the early hours of the morning but I am home well before dark.

  I also had to move. After Grady was locked away his presence was still around. I felt him everywhere in the apartment we had shared, and I couldn’t face his friends and family. It was at that time I realized that I didn’t have any friends of my own. He had taken control of my entire life right down to the fact that I didn’t even have my mother’s phone number.

  Having no social circle to confide in it was all I could do to save face. To do my best to ignore their mocking and their threats, asking me if I was happier now that he was gone. I was, but it wasn’t the way they were asking. They didn’t care about me, just their perfect Grady.

  My growling stomach is an almost welcome distraction from the spiral my thoughts were taking me down. I try so hard not to think about Grady. About the life I left behind.

  I feel like I’m a decent enough person. I did volunteer work when I could. I work hard and am always trying to better myself. I thought I had fallen in love with a wonderful man. Instead I had been grabbed by a horrendous one.

  Setting my mug in the sink, I scroll through my emails. I’m hoping that maybe one of the many ads I sent my resume to has replied. It’s not even that I’m being picky about a second job. I’m not. For some reason, though, no one seems interested in more than an interview. If I even get one of those.

  No such luck.

  I grab the apple out of the fridge and cut it up into slices before setting it on a plate I’d used earlier in the day. A few extra bread crumbs aren’t going to ruin anything. There isn’t even anything to ruin.

  I take the bread out of the cupboard and the small jar of peanut butter. There’s not a lot left in either the bag or the bottle, but it will do. It’ll stave off the hunger pains until tomorrow when I ca
n get something small at the restaurant.

  I let out a deep sigh. This day just seems to be dragging on forever and I only have a few dollars in tips to show for it. It’s almost time for bed, then I will simply start it all over again and hope for the best. All I can do is keep my head up and put one foot in front of the other.

  I finish making my sandwich and set my plate and glass of water on the nightstand before going over to the front door. I lock it, all of it. There’s a chain lock, deadbolt, and the doorknob itself. Once I’m satisfied that all three are locked, I make my way back to my room.

  I sit cross-legged on the be, grabbing my plate and leaning against the headboard. I take a bite of my sandwich and wish I’d toasted it. The bread is stale and there isn’t enough peanut butter on it to hide the fact. Nothing I can do now. It’s either eat this or starve, and I’m already starving.

  May as well use the last few moments of daylight to apply for a few more jobs. I would like to land a receptionist job. I could do so much with the stability granted from that pay increase.

  I need something to change. I’m not asking to win the lottery or find out I have a long lost relative that willed me their estate. I just want to be able to wake up in the morning and not worry about if my lights will turn on or if I will come home from work and see the eviction notice on my door.

  I have nowhere else to turn.

  Nothing else I can do except hope someone will see value in my work ethic and experiences.

  I pull the threadbare quilt up around my shoulders and slide down into the bed. Burying my head in the pillow I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart. I don’t need a panic attack now. I need to try and sleep.

  2

  Charlotte

  There's a picture of my wife on our wall. It's from our wedding day, and though it's a recent picture, she looks exactly the same as she did on the day we met ten years ago. She was just a girl back then, working as a nightclub waitress to pay her way through art school. I’d been foolish enough to think that I could buy her affection, but she quickly proved me wrong.

  Addison made me work for her love. No matter how many times I tried to persuade her that as a self-made billionaire, money wasn't an issue for me, she turned down my generous tips. It only made me want her more. Eventually, after I serenaded her with a ballad at her club's karaoke night, she agreed to go on a date with me and the rest was history. In my naïveté, I believed that our history would last forever.

  That picture of her on the wall from our wedding day--the picture that effortlessly captured her deep brown eyes, golden curls, and stunning smile--it's the last piece I have of her. I choose to keep this picture up despite the pain, because that's how I choose to remember Addison: happy, in love with me, and alive. It's a stark contrast to the last image I have of her: cold and motionless, clutching a bouquet of white roses in her casket.

  I wipe a tear from my eyes, being careful to dab around the scar that runs from my temple to the middle of my cheek. Every day as I look at it in the mirror, I wonder why Addison had to die in that horrific crash while I escaped with only a scar. Before I disappear into a void of depression, as I often do, I clutch the wedding ring strung around my neck--Addison's ring--and take a deep breath before picking up the phone. I have to remember I'm doing this for her. It's what she would have wanted.

  It only rings twice before someone answers, and I have to clear the hoarseness from my throat. "Hi, this is Charlotte Monroe, calling about my surrogate profile. Is there a match yet?"

  "Mrs. Monroe," the agent sounds apologetic and it kills me. Not even five seconds in and I'm already getting bad news. "As we've said before, there are many capable surrogates available through our agency. The problem lies in the terms you specified...none of the potential matches will agree."

  My grip on the wedding band tightens. "But we need--I need this to happen." I catch myself, but it's too late. I can hear the sympathy in the agent's voice.

  "Don't give up just yet. Perhaps if you think about changing your terms we can find a match sooner. Not a lot of our clients like the fact that they would have to move in with you for the duration of the pregnancy. I know you and your late wife really wanted this to work. If we re-assess the rules you've put in place, we can find a match in the next few weeks."

  If I weren't so even tempered, there is no doubt I would've ended the call at the mention of Addison. Instead, I simply sigh and explain my position. "I understand your concern with my terms, but I would prefer to provide for the mother and keep her safe while getting to know her. The only way I can really do that is if she lives under my roof."

  "I realize that, Mrs. Monroe, but there is a very low chance you'll find a match this way." We sit in silence for a few moments until the agent realizes I'm not going to back down.

  "All right," she sighs. She folded easier than I suspected she would. "We'll continue with your original terms and let you know as soon as we identify a match. Please call back with any additional questions."

  "Thank you," I breathe, feeling no closer to the goal Addison and I set than when I initially picked up the phone. "Hope to hear from you soon."

  As soon as the call ends, I consider calling back immediately and agreeing to change my terms. Having a baby using the eggs Addison froze before her death is the only way I could ever feel close to her again, and I'm willing to do almost anything to achieve that. Well, almost anything. Rubbing my temples, I tell myself that if the agency isn't able to find a match in the next few days, I'll give in and alter the contract.

  Addison's forever-frozen smile shines down on me from the picture in the frame. Every day without her is a day not worth living, but this baby gives me a reason to keep going. "I'm going to make it happen, Addy, I promise. You're going to be proud of me."

  The silence that pervades the room makes the hole in my heart enlarge tenfold; I miss her voice more than anything. As the unrelenting claws of depression begin to clutch at me and pull me under again, I wonder what Addison would say if she could see me now. What would she see?

  I shuffle to the mirror to see for myself, and I'm immensely disappointed with the woman in front of me. She's thin, too thin, and her pallid skin tone does nothing to disguise the enormous purple bruises beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. She does nothing but work, and she can't even bring herself to box up any of her wife's old belongings although they've gone untouched for a very long time. It sickens me to see myself like this, and I have to turn away.

  Instead of channeling my energy into something positive, I go back to obsessing about the nonexistent surrogate. The rules I've created were put in place for the future match's comfort and protection. I'm sure somebody out there will see it the way I do. If I only had the chance to speak to the candidates in person, I might be able to gain some leverage.

  Just then, the perfect plan materializes right in front of me. I'll just pay a quick visit to the agency and interview a couple of candidates myself. This way, I'll be able to explain my contract stipulations in person while getting a feel for each candidate's personality. It's a great idea, one that would have made Addison praise my resourcefulness.

  I'm so hopeful that the plan will work that I pick up my car keys and head for the door. "It's just a short drive," I assure myself, but once I arrive at my garage door my feet refuse to carry me forward. "Just a short drive." The words echo in my ears until my head feels heavy and my vision blurs.

  Suddenly I'm back in the car with Addison by my side and all I can see are headlights, all I hear is the blaring of a truck's horn. The car is spinning out of control and I scream Addison's name as I grasp the steering wheel for dear life; she's begging me to stop the car but the brakes won't work.

  "No!" I cry, tears already forming on my cheeks as I'm brought swiftly back to the brutal reality of life after the accident. I fall to my knees before the garage door. To a normal person, the drive from my house to the agency would be a non-issue. But for me, a 33-year-old widow with crippling post
-traumatic stress disorder, getting behind the wheel of a car is almost impossible.

  After pulling myself together, I return to the kitchen and store my keys away in a drawer where the attached memories can't hurt me. Luckily, one of the perks of being a billionaire is having 24/7 access to an elite car service. I rarely utilize it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  As the black car pulls into my driveway, I take one moment to myself to bring the wedding ring necklace up to my lips. "Please, please let this work," I whisper, and hope that despite my decidedly unique contract, I will be coming home with a surrogate match.

  3

  Katrina

  The next morning, I’m nervous as hell as I get ready to go out. This is a stupid idea and I know it. Still, I’m out of options.

  I’m heading into the local clinic to see if I can literally sell off parts of myself. I know you can sell eggs, blood, and even rent the space in your womb. I haven’t got that much going for me, but I am young and healthy.

  I know that surrogacy comes with a ton of support if it’s done legitimately. People who are invested in your health and that of the baby will make sure you have insurance and the very best care. I’ve heard of dodgy deals going down, but I’m hoping to avoid that by heading to a clinic with a good reputation.