The sleek office of Alexander Cross was a fortress of glass and steel, perched high above the bustling city. It reflected its owner—cold, detached, and unapproachable. Alex sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, scanning through financial reports with a clinical precision. Everything in his life was ordered, predictable, and calculated.
But tonight, something gnawed at him.
He swiveled his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights stretching endlessly beneath him. His jaw tightened as the thought surfaced again—the one he'd been avoiding for weeks.
An heir.
His legacy demanded it. At thirty-eight, he had no interest in romance or marriage. People were unpredictable, messy, and full of emotional complications he had no patience for. A child, however, was different. A clean, logical solution existed: surrogacy.
The intercom buzzed, breaking his thoughts. "Mr. Cross, your housekeeper, Mary, would like a word," his assistant's voice crackled.
Alex frowned but nodded. "Send her in."
Minutes later, Mary entered, wiping her hands nervously on her apron. She was one of the few people Alex trusted—a steady presence in his life for over a decade.
"Mary," he said, leaning back. "What's on your mind?"
She hesitated, then blurted, "I know you're looking for a surrogate. I—I think my daughter, Clara, might be the right person."
Alex's brow furrowed. "Clara? The artist?"
"Yes. She's strong, healthy, and… well, she could use the money to fund her studio."
Alex steepled his fingers, considering. "Does she know about this suggestion?"
Mary winced. "Not… exactly. But I'm sure she'll hear you out."
He sighed. He had no interest in family drama. But as Mary spoke about Clara—her independence, her determination—curiosity stirred within him.
"Fine," he said. "Have her come to me. Let's see if she's as… resolute as you claim."