Page 55 of Mafia Pregnancy

Blaire

The suite I'm cleaning belongs to someone who clearly never worries about money.

A Cartier watch lies forgotten on the nightstand, and the closet door hangs open to reveal more designer clothes than most people own regular clothes.

I straighten the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets and avoid thinking about my own scratchy polyester ones at home.

"Elliott!"

The sharp voice cuts through the mechanical whir, and I straighten immediately, my shoulders tensing. Mrs. Hendrick stands in the doorway, her pencil-thin eyebrows drawn together in disapproval. Her gray hair is shellacked into a helmet that hasn't moved since I started working here six months ago.

"The bathroom mirrors in 1245 still have streaks. Do it again."

I switch off the vacuum and nod, biting back the words that want to escape. I cleaned those mirrors twenty minutes ago until they gleamed like crystal, but arguing with Mrs. Hendrick is like arguing with the marble statues in the lobby.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of it right away."

She purses her lips, deepening the lines around her mouth. "See that you do. Also, the lobby needs attention when you're finished with this floor. Some guest spilled champagne near the concierge desk."

Of course, they did. The guests here spill hundred-dollar bottles of champagne like I spill tap water, except they don't have to clean it up. They just glide away in their designer shoes while people like me scramble to erase any evidence of their carelessness.

"Oh…" Mrs. Hendrick pauses in the doorway, her tone making it clear this won't be good news. "Corporate's cutting hours again. Starting next week, you'll be down to thirty hours instead of forty. Budget constraints."

My stomach drops. Thirty hours at minimum wage, minus taxes, minus the gas to get here... I do the math quickly and feel sick. That won't even cover rent, let alone utilities or food.

"I understand," I manage to say, because what else can I say? That I need those hours? That I'm already working two jobs and barely surviving? Mrs. Hendrick doesn't care about my problems. Maybe I can find a third job with those extra ten hours. Somehow.

I watch her march away with military precision.

The moment she disappears around the corner, I allow myself five seconds to close my eyes and breathe.

Just five seconds to imagine a life where I don't scrub toilets for people who spend more on lunch than I make in a week.

Where a ten-hour cut doesn't mean choosing between electricity and groceries.

The smell of lemon cleaner follows me as I wheel my cart to room 1245, my reflection ghosting across the polished surfaces.

Twenty-nine years old and I already look older, with dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide.

Not that I can afford good concealer anyway.

The stuff from the dollar store cakes and cracks by noon, making me look even more exhausted than I already am.

I spray the mirrors again, working in careful circles the way they taught us in training.

The couple staying in this suite left evidence of their wealth scattered across every surface.

There’s a Rolex on the nightstand, a Hermès scarf draped over a chair, and receipts from restaurants I've only seen in magazines.

The bathroom alone is bigger than my entire studio apartment, with a soaking tub I could practically swim in and heated floors that warm my aching feet through my worn shoes.

Through the open bathroom door, I see the remnants of their evening, including an empty champagne bottle in a silver bucket, two glasses with lipstick marks on the rim, and a room service cart with the remains of what looks like lobster and steak.

One meal, probably three hundred dollars. My whole month’s grocery budget.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from my landlord. "Rent is due in 3 days. Don't be late again."

Right. Because being late was such a choice last month when I had to decide between eating and paying rent on time.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and return to the mirrors, scrubbing harder than necessary.

With my hours being cut, next month's going to be even worse.

Maybe I can pick up more shifts at the café, though they're already complaining about giving me too many hours. Nobody wants to pay benefits.

By the time I make it down to the lobby, the dinner crowd has arrived.

Women in cocktail dresses that cost more than my car float past me like I'm invisible, their jewelry catching the light from the massive chandeliers overhead.

Their laughter tinkles like the champagne glasses they hold, a sound that belongs to a world I'll never enter except to clean up after it.

I locate the spill near the concierge desk—sure enough, champagne mixed with what looks like strawberry puree.

It’s some kind of specialty cocktail that probably cost fifty dollars and lasted all of five minutes before ending up on the marble.

I drop to my knees with a handful of towels, trying to ignore the way my back protests the position.

"Excuse me."

The voice above me is male and impatient. I glance up to find a man in an Armani suit checking his phone with one hand while gesturing vaguely at the floor with the other.

"You missed a spot."

I follow his gesture to a splash of pink liquid I haven't reached yet. "I'm working on it, sir."

He doesn't respond, already walking away, his attention captured by whoever just called him. I return to scrubbing, my movements automatic after months of practice. The conversation drifts over from the hotel bar, mixing with the soft jazz piped through hidden speakers.

"—told Buffy she was crazy to do it, but honestly, the money was too good to pass up. She was tired of letting her father tell her what to do. He wanted her to work for him. Can you imagine working?"

I slow my cleaning, tuning in to the female voice without looking up.

Two women have settled at a high-top table near the bar, their designer handbags perched on the empty chairs like tiny, expensive pets.

The blonde one wears a cream-colored dress that looks uber expensive.

Her brunette friend sports a diamond tennis bracelet that catches the light every time she gestures.

"How much are we talking about?" The brunette leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carries in the marble acoustics.

"Six figures for nine months of work. Can you imagine?"

My hand stills on the towel. Six figures. That's more than I make in... I can't even calculate it without getting depressed.

"And all she had to do was carry the baby? That's it?"

"I mean, there were medical procedures involved, obviously. IVF and all that, but the clinic handled everything. EverAfter, I think it was called. Very exclusive. They only work with the super-wealthy."

I shift slightly, pretending to attack a particularly stubborn spot while straining to hear more.

"The father never even met her. Everything was handled through lawyers and the clinic. She said it was the easiest money she ever made, and now she's living in that gorgeous condo in SoHo, not working for her father."

"I don’t know. I don’t even want to have my own offspring, but nine months to be free of her father? I can’t blame Buffy, even if it sounds a little…crazy."

The blonde laughs, taking a sip of her martini.

"Exactly, though you know what's really crazy?

She could have made seven figures if she'd agreed to use her own eggs.

Apparently, some of these men want to know everything about the biological mother—education, family history, and even IQ tests.

They prefer what the clinic calls 'direct donation' from the surrogate. "

"Seven figures?" The brunette's eyes widen. "For having your own biological child and giving it up?" She sounds shocked and a little uneasy.

"That's the part that got to me too, but Buffy said the clinic has this whole counseling program, and legally, the baby belongs to the father from conception.

She said one girl she met there—Harvard graduate and concert pianist—made one-point-two million because the father specifically wanted someone with her credentials to be the biological mother. "

My heart pounds so loud I'm sure they must hear it. More than a million dollars? That's a complete life change. That's freedom.

"The screening process is intense though," the blonde continues.

"Full medical history going back three generations, psychological evaluations, intelligence tests, and even appearance standards.

Buffy said they turned down her friend who's a yoga instructor because she didn't have a college degree. "

"Still," the brunette muses, swirling her wine, "For that kind of money? I'd take any test they wanted to give me."

They laugh again, the sound bright and careless, and I grip the towel so tightly my knuckles crack. EverAfter Surrogacy Clinic. Direct donation. Seven figures. The words burn themselves into my memory as I finish cleaning the spill and gather my supplies.

I push my cart toward the service elevator, my mind spinning with possibilities. Even the lower amount—six figures for carrying someone else's biological child—would change everything. Seven figures for using my own eggs? That's not just escaping poverty. That's never worrying about money again.

The service elevator smells like industrial cleaner and old food, a combination that usually makes me nauseated. Tonight, I barely notice it. Could I carry a baby for nine months, give birth, and hand it over to a stranger? My own biological child, raised by someone else. Could I do that?