The Tycoon's Unexpected Surrogate

“Slap!” The sound echoed sharply as my cheek stung from the force of my mother-in-law’s hand, Conrad Hartley’s mother. She stood at the doorway, my suitcase in her hand.

With a forceful shove, my suitcase tumbled down the steps, narrowly missing me.

“How dare you darken this doorstep! You’ve dragged the our family’s name through the mud!” she bellowed, jabbing a finger at me. “Leave and never return!”

Her disdain for me had never been a secret.

Ever since Conrad and I bypassed the grand wedding for a simple registration, she refused to accept me as his bride.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I finally mustered the courage to speak, “Mom...”

“Mom? Hah! Who’s your mom?” she retorted with scorn. “Out with you!”

“I need to see Conrad,” I pressed, fighting the tremble in my voice. “We’re legally bound, husband and wife.”

“Conrad’s done with you!” She stood, an impenetrable barrier at the door, blocking any glimpse of Conrad, if he was even there.

Arguing with her was like battling a tempest with whispers; I clenched my fists, knowing better than to reason with her.

“Is Conrad away on a business trip?”

“That’s right. And you, seizing his absence, betrayed him, didn’t you? Brought shame upon him!” she accused, her gestures mocking me with an imaginary cuckold’s horns.

“Auntie,” I corrected, since her refusal to acknowledge any familial ties. “You can’t just slander me like this.”

“Slander? Were you not at the hospital today? At the gynecology department, no less?”

I hesitated, indeed having visited the hospital, but puzzled over her source of information.

“Cat got your tongue? Without Fenna’s tip-off, I’d be none the wiser. My son’s never laid a finger on you, and yet, here you are, expecting. Whose sin are you carrying? Tell me!”

Just then, a thunderous crack split the air, startling her. Conrad’s mother taking it as a divine sign, pointing skyward as if it were a decree against me, “Even the heavens condemn you, you disgrace!”

With another shove, she slammed the door in my face.

As I stood there, the sky above promised a deluge.

A flash of pink lightning carved ominous signs above, lending her accusations a surreal edge.

Her accusations left me defenseless, her words painfully accurate; I was pregnant.

Dragging my suitcase, I wandered, lost in thought.

Conrad and I had cherished a year of love before tying the knot, yet our intimacy remained unexplored.

Always virtuous, the delay of my cycle this month alarmed me only after a hospital visit confirmed my pregnancy.

The origin of this pregnancy baffled me.

It wasn’t as if I could conceive on my own.

The entire situation was a mystery that left me perplexed.

Another clap of thunder heralded the rain’s arrival.

I didn’t seek shelter, allowing the rain to engulf me, my suitcase a cumbersome companion on this aimless journey.

Running seemed pointless when direction was lost;

I trudged on, soaked to the bone, the rain a cold companion seeping into my very soul.

With my family living elsewhere and no immediate refuge within the city, my options were limited to either an embarrassing retreat or aimless wandering.

Then, a car halted beside me, and from it emerged a man, suited and holding a yellow plaid umbrella.

He approached, offering shelter, his smile gentle, “Miss Summer Shaw?”

My nod was mechanical, his face unfamiliar.

“And you are?” I inquired, wary.

“Please, come with me. You’re drenched,” he urged, with a politeness that belied the situation.

“I don’t know you,” was my blunt reply.

“Please, trust me, I mean no harm.” he assured, yet his assurance did little to ease my suspicion.

“Do villains ever confess their villainy?” I countered.

His chuckle, assessing my soaked state, offered a peculiar comfort. “Given your plight, what could you possibly fear from me?”

His logic, flawed or not, didn’t convince me to join him.

Dragging my suitcase, I continued forward, him following at a leisurely pace with the umbrella, and the luxury car inching behind us.

“Miss Shaw, you’re pregnant, aren’t you? I paused when he mentioned my pregnancy, a surprise that my condition was known.

His knowing smile hinted at secrets, “Curious about the father?”

His implication was clear, yet my doubt lingered, “And how would you know, when even I’m in the dark?”

His smile didn’t wane, “Come with me. Besides, where else do you have to go?”

Despite not knowing who he was, his subsequent words sparked my curiosity.

Nothing seemed more vital than discovering the father of the child within me.

Intrigued and desperate for answers, I watched as he instructed his driver to handle my luggage and then guided me into the warmth of the car.

Inside, the comfort of the heated seats contrasted sharply with my sodden clothes. He handed me a cup of hot water with a cheerful demeanor, “You must keep warm, for the baby’s sake.”

I held the cup, skeptical of his motives.

Though I possessed nothing of value, the world was rife with dangers.

And I was already a vessel of misfortune.

In a quick fifteen, we arrived at a prestigious garden villa complex in the heart of the city, a place where real estate is as precious as gold. I recall a moment not too long ago when Conrad and I passed by, his eyes filled with envy as he remarked, “Living here would mean I’ve truly made it in life.”

The car halted in front of a three-story villa, its sizable garden greeting us first.

The driver stepped out, opened my door, and gestured towards the main entrance, “This will be your home until the baby is born.”

Confused, I blurted out, “What are you talking about?”

He offered a slow, reassuring smile, “Inside, you’ll find an auntie and a younger housekeeper. They’ll take care of all your needs.”

I’ve always considered myself not just smart but also quick-thinking, especially under pressure.

Facing the driver, I ventured, “Is it the father of my baby who’s arranged for me to stay here?”

He neither confirmed nor denied, just as the front door swung open, and a woman in her forties emerged, her smile warm, “You must be Miss Shaw. Please, come in—it’s too cold out here.”

Before I knew it, I was ushered inside by her, while the driver, having given a few instructions, departed.

Standing at the entrance, the mansion’s grandeur struck me. I’d never lived in such a vast space; the living room alone felt like an echoing basketball court.

While I was still taking it all in, the woman placed slippers at my feet, “Miss Shaw, change into these; you’re soaked. Go take a warm bath; I’ve got soup simmering for you.”

“That man who brought me here...” I began, slipping into the slippers.

“Oh, Secretary Douglas?” she replied.

“Secretary Douglas? Whose secretary is he?”

She shook her head, “All I know is his title. Call me Cecilia, and that’s Jemma,” pointing to a smiling young girl by the stairs,

“She’s on cleanup; I’m on cook-up.”

The situation was baffling, to say the least.

Finding myself mysteriously pregnant and then mysteriously brought here added layers to my confusion.

Post-bath, the warm water seemed to knit my soul back into my body.

Sitting at the vanity, drying my hair, I pondered deeply.

My relationship with Conrad had always been proper, never stepping out of line, especially since we’d just made our union official. Surely, I wouldn’t betray him.

The only anomaly was that night after a gathering he’d taken me to, where I’d drunk too much and ended up spending the night in a hotel.

Waking up alone, with my clothes scattered and the bed’s tale-telling signs, I knew something happened.

I questioned Conrad, who fumbled for clarity.

I’d assumed he’d taken advantage while I was drunk, but being legally bound, I let it slide.

Now, piecing together recent events, I suspected another was involved that hotel night.

Hugging myself, I felt a chill.

Jemma, noticing, offered to turn up the heat, but I held her back, “Do you know who owns this place?”

She shook her head, “I was hired by Secretary Douglas. He pays, I work.”

The mystery deepened.

As a journalist accustomed to uncovering the bizarre, I analyzed and reached a staggering conclusion.

It seemed that a figure of considerable influence, perhaps without an heir or specifically yearning for a son, had selected me to fulfill that very role.

While such arrangements have become somewhat common, never did I imagine myself in this narrative.

That evening, the exquisite soup and dishes prepared by Cecilia surpassed any home-cooked meal I’d ever had, yet my mind swirled with uncertainty.

However, I resolved to stay, to unearth the identity of this enigmatic figure.

Come morning, energized for work, I found the same car awaiting me, the driver as respectful as before, inviting, “Miss Shaw, please.”

The more he behaved that way, the more intrigued I became about the man’s identity.

For someone like me, with an ambiguous status, his humility was telling; the man had to be someone of significance.

Instantly, my mind conjured up the image of a corpulent, balding man, which made my stomach churn.

The driver introduced himself as Mr. Hartley, and told me to just call him Harry.

Hearing the surname "Hartley" instantly reminded me of Conrad Hartley.

Recalling Conrad, his habitual retreat in conflict between his mother and me came to mind.

Despite my repeated calls, Conrad remained unreachable, unaware, perhaps, of my predicament.

Each conflict with his mother had him fleeing, only to return post-storm, seeking forgiveness.

Thus, the reason behind our uncelebrated union became glaringly obvious.

Upon arriving at the magazine office, my colleague, Toby, informed me that the chief editor wanted to see me.

Having taken a half-day off to visit the hospital yesterday, I had vanished into thin air thereafter, evidently setting myself up for a reprimand today.

I entered the editor-in-chief’s office, where he motioned for me to take a seat.

“We’ve got an interview scheduled for today. Zack is out on a business trip, so you’re stepping in. He’s already prepped the interview draft; just grab it and head out.”

Taking the draft, I glanced over the opening lines.

“An exclusive interview with , Deputy CEO of Triton Consortium.”

Interviews, especially with high-profile figures, aren’t typically my beat—I’m all about chasing down frontline news.

Particularly with interviews of this caliber, they’re often padded with fluff, and the truly newsworthy bits are off-limits.

“Chief, maybe Toby could cover this one? I’ve got to check in with the Drug Administration today.”

“Your mother-in-law dropped by the magazine office right before closing yesterday,” the editor-in-chief shifted the topic, causing me to tense up at the mention of my mother-in-law.

“What did she come for?”

“Summer,” he said with a grave look, “You’ve been with us since you graduated, putting in solid work. Normally, I wouldn’t meddle in your personal life, but your mother-in-law’s antics yesterday indeed tarnished our magazine’s reputation.”

I didn’t even bother to inquire about the specifics of my mother-in-law’s outburst; the editor’s expression made it clear this interview was now my responsibility.

The commotion caused by Conrad’s mother yesterday meant I had lost any leverage I might have had.

Clutching the interview draft, I trudged downstairs, deflated.

The luxury car was still waiting outside. As I approached, I leaned towards the driver’s window, “Not working today?”

“This is my job, Miss Shaw,” he replied with a bright smile. “You’re a journalist, always on the move, so it makes sense for me to wait here. Where to?”

Without further ado, I slid into the car, “Triton Consortium.”

He paused, giving me a quick glance.

“Lost?” I inquired, somewhat puzzled.

“No, I know this place,” he hurriedly assured, starting the car.

Early pregnancy brings bouts of drowsiness; I dozed off on route, waking only when the driver announced our arrival.

I had made an appointment with Quentin’s secretary, who asked me to wait in the lobby, mentioning Mr. Saxon was tied up in a meeting and would join shortly.

Before his arrival, I reviewed the interview draft again. Zack’s writing was straightforward, filled with plain language, making it easy to memorize.

As I nearly knew it by heart, the door opened.

Politeness prompted me to stand, and as long strides entered, I quickly offered my hand, "Hello, Mr. Saxon..."