“For knowing when you’re lying.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m not?—”
“I know.” I leaned forward again. “Because if you were lying, you’d be quieter. You’d measure your words. You’d try to control the narrative. But you’re not doing that. You’re just… talking. Filling the silence because you can’t help it. That means you’re telling the truth.”
She swallowed hard.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, my voice dropping lower. “You’re going to go home. You’re going to think about this, really think about it. Not the money. Not the contract. Not what this could do for your life. You’re going to think about what it means to carry my child for nine months and then hand that child over to me and walk away. You’re going to imagine what that feels like. And if you can do that—if you can sit with that reality and still want to sign—then we’ll move forward.”
“I’ve already thought about it,” she said quietly.
“No,” I said. “You’ve thought about the money. You’ve thought about getting out of your mama’s house. You’ve thought about starting over. But you haven’t thought aboutme.”
The air between us shifted.
Charged.
Her breathing quickened.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Walked around the desk until I was standing in front of her.
She had to tilt her head back to look at me.
I could see the pulse hammering in her throat. Could smell the cocoa butter and nervous sweat and something warm and alive and entirelyher.
“I mean,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “that for nine months, you’re going to be carrying a part of me inside you.My DNA. My bloodline. My legacy. That’s not clinical. That’s not just biology. That’s intimate in a way you’re not prepared for.”
She didn’t look away.
Didn’t flinch.
And then she asked the question nobody else had.
“Why can’t you do this naturally?”
My jaw tightened.
The silence stretched between us—thick, dangerous, the kind of silence that usually preceded violence or lies. I’d built my entire life on controlling information, on keeping people at a distance, on never showing weakness.
But Truth Renois was looking at me with those kind, stubborn eyes, waiting for an answer she had every right to ask for.
“Medical condition,” I said finally. “Genetic. Azoospermia. It means I don’t produce viable sperm. It’s irreversible.”
The words tasted like failure in my mouth.
She didn’t react the way I expected—no pity, no awkward sympathy, no uncomfortable shifting in her seat. She just nodded slowly, processing.
“Okay,” she said. “So, this isn’t a choice. It’s the only option.”
“Yes.”
