Hannah’s POV

“Please, Hannah. Be my girlfriend. For whatever time I have left.”

Peter’s thin fingers gripped my wrist with surprising strength as he lay in his makeshift hospital bed. His once-handsome face was gaunt now, skin stretched tight over cheekbones, but his eyes burned with a feverish intensity that made me shrink back in my chair.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stammered, instinctively pulling my hand away. The small bedroom in Edward’s modest home suddenly felt airless. The medical equipment crowding the space seemed to close in around me, their beeping accelerating to match my heartbeat.

This was Peter, Edward’s son. The man who had sat with me through countless nightmares after the fire. The same person who had made me tea and told ridiculous stories until I could breathe again. But he had never been—could never be—more than family to me.

“I’ve always wanted more than friendship,” he continued, his voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t let me die knowing I never had a chance with you. Please, Hannah. I’m begging you.”

I shifted uncomfortably in the worn armchair beside his bed. How could I refuse a dying man’s request? Especially when that man was the son of Edward Johnson, the retired special education teacher who had saved me from homelessness after the Lancaster mansion burned to the ground, taking my parents and three brothers with it.

“Peter, I care about you deeply, but—”

“But what?” His voice rose sharply, startling me. “I’m dying, Hannah! Dying! Is it so much to ask that you give me this one comfort before I’m gone?” His chest heaved with agitation, and the heart monitor beside his bed began beeping more rapidly.

The words hit like a physical blow. Three years of gratitude and obligation settled on my shoulders like a crushing weight. Edward had given me shelter when I had nowhere to go. He’d helped me find purpose again by recommending me for a position at Sunshine Special Education Center.

“Peter, please calm down. You need to rest—”

“Rest?” He let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into a coughing fit. When he finally caught his breath, tears streamed down his hollow cheeks. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I’m dead. Which will be soon, since we can’t afford the treatment in Boston.”

The helplessness crushed against my chest. Here was Edward’s only son, slipping away day by day, and I could do nothing to stop it. I couldn’t bring myself to pretend romantic feelings I didn’t have, even for a dying man. And I had no money, no resources to contribute to the treatment that might save him. The Lancaster name, once synonymous with wealth and influence, was now just a hollow reminder of all I had lost.

“You need to take your medication,” I said softly, offering him water and pills, desperate to change the subject and calm him down.

His pale lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace as he knocked the pills from my hand. They scattered across the floor with tiny clicking sounds. “What’s the point, Hannah? We both know it won’t make any difference now. Not without the real treatment.”

“Your father has given up so much—”

“My father is going to watch me die!” Peter’s voice broke on a sob. “He’s going to lose his only son, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. Unless…” He trailed off, his eyes fixed on something across the room.

I followed his gaze to the small desk where his medical records were kept. A glossy piece of paper peeked out from beneath the files, its corner catching the afternoon light.

“Unless what?” I asked, though something in my stomach twisted with unease.

Peter’s breathing was ragged now, his face flushed with fever and emotion. “There might be… one way. But I can’t ask you. I have no right.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?”

He closed his eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath his lids. “In the desk. There’s an advertisement. I found it weeks ago, but I couldn’t… I didn’t want to…” Another coughing fit seized him, more violent than before.

My hands shook as I moved to the desk, driven by a terrible sense of inevitability. I pulled out the glossy paper, my eyes widening as I read:

[Elite family seeking surrogate mother. $500,000 upon successful pregnancy, remaining $1.5 million after delivery. Strict confidentiality required. Genetic screening mandatory. Contact information enclosed.]

“That’s it,” Peter encouraged, his voice taking on a manic edge. “Just dial the number. Just see what they say.”

With shaking fingers, I entered the number from the advertisement. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would wake the neighbors. One ring. Two rings. Three. With each passing second, my finger hovered closer to the end call button.

“Don’t hang up,” Peter urged, watching me intently. “Please don’t hang up.”

Just as I was about to disconnect, there was a click, followed by silence. Then a man’s voice came through—cold, clipped, and utterly businesslike.

“How may I help you?”

My breath caught in my throat. I looked at Peter, who nodded frantically, his eyes pleading.

“Hello?” the man prompted, impatience evident in his tone.

“I’m—” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “My name is Hannah Lancaster. I’m calling about… about the advertisement.”

“Which advertisement?” The man’s voice remained detached, clinical.

I swallowed hard, my eyes never leaving Peter’s face. “The one about… about the surrogate mother position.”

There was a brief pause, and I heard papers rustling in the background. “Ah, yes. The surrogacy opportunity. Are you calling to apply for the position, Ms. Lancaster?”