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.”
