Page 11 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

It began, as most terrifying modern rituals do, with a secure login and an ominous user agreement.

“Click I agree ,” Cal said, peering over my shoulder.

“I’m reading it,” I lied.

“You are not reading the terms and conditions.”

“I could be,” I said, squinting at the wall of text. “You don’t know. I might care deeply about clauses and indemnities and fine print.”

Cal reached past me and clicked it himself. “If we accidentally promise our firstborn to a fertility witch, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He had clicked back into calm mode, undoubtedly in an attempt to balance me out.

We were sitting at our kitchen counter, laptop open between us, the True Path Donor Database glowing in all its lavender-accented glory.

We came to a page with the simple heading: Choose Your Perfect Surrogate.

There were filters for everything—hair color, height, education level, medical history, even astrological sign.

And then there it was… sense of humor … with a drop-down menu .

That last one felt… oddly subjective.

I hovered the mouse over it. “How does this even work? What’s the scale here—Eddie Murphy in a red leather jumpsuit or a mom on Facebook sharing minion memes?”

Cal peered at the screen. “Is there a filter for dad jokes?”

“There should be,” I muttered. “Because some of these profiles are giving serious knock-knock trauma.”

I clicked the menu open and read the options aloud. “Playful. Dry. Silly. Whimsical. Observational.”

“Whimsical?” Cal repeated. “What does that even mean?”

“I think if a donor chooses that option it means she owns a tambourine and refers to squirrels as her ‘little friends.’”

“What’s wrong with that? And why are we obsessing over this already? We haven’t even started looking at potential surrogates yet.”

“Because I want our kid to be funny, not weird - funny ,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

“Says the man who once laughed for ten full minutes at a picture of a dog in glasses.”

“That dog was hilarious!”

“So are squirrels!”

I groaned. “Fine. Let’s start with something simple. Let’s opt for dark hair, brown eyes, no criminal history.”

“That’s most of the planet,” Cal said.

“Exactly. Widen the pool. See who floats.”

I tapped a few filters, then hit search.

And just like that, the faces appeared. One after another. Rows of hopeful smiles and awkward headshots and bios full of “I love being the oldest of seven!” and “My friends say I give the best hugs!”

“Oh, God,” I whispered. “We’re choosing genetic material from people who unironically list ‘cat aunt’ as a personality trait.”

Cal leaned in. “This one says she’s fluent in three languages and played the oboe in a youth orchestra. ”

I clicked on the profile. “Her favorite movie is Fast & Furious 8 and her biggest dream is to meet the Property Brothers. Delete.”

“Matt.”

“I’m just saying—if she has strong emotional opinions about shiplap and identical brothers who both look like they should be called Chad, she should not be part of our genetic legacy.”

We scrolled. And scrolled.

“This one likes to ‘laugh with her eyes,’” I said. “I don’t even know what that means. Does she have a genetic eyeball condition? What if she passes it down?”

“Next,” Cal said.

“This one says she used to do competitive clog dancing,” I said.

“She also won a statewide science fair. That’s kind of amazing.”

I clicked on her voice clip. A warm, confident voice filled the speakers. “Hi! I’m so excited to help families grow. I believe laughter is the key to everything, and also I make my own kombucha!”

I froze. “Nope. Kombucha is a red flag. It’s a gateway to crystals and microgreens.”

“I thought you loved crystals. Didn’t you find one in a parking lot?”

“Now that I’ve realized it was gravel, I never wanna talk about it again.”

He pulled the laptop closer to him and took over. “Okay, what about this one—says she’s a trauma nurse, has perfect vision, and her hobbies include hiking and volunteering at an animal shelter.”

I clicked her audio. “Hi, I’m Jenna. I believe in compassion, resilience, and long walks with purpose.”

“That’s a dating profile,” I muttered. “And what does ‘walks with purpose’ even mean? Is she stomping through the woods looking for vengeance? ”

Cal gave me a sideways look. “I think you need a snack.”

“I need a miracle .”

We kept scrolling.

One donor listed “Disneyland” as her religion.

Another had a photo with a hedgehog in a tiny backpack as her profile pic.

One simply wrote, “ I was valedictorian. My parents are also cousins. ”

I dropped my forehead to the countertop. “We’re never going to find someone.”

Cal rubbed my back. “It’s only been twenty minutes.”

“It feels like years. I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve learned too much about strangers and not enough about who I am as a person.”

“Don’t crash and burn yet, babe. We haven’t even taken off yet.”

“I can’t help it,” I said, flipping the laptop closed. “The weight of paternal responsibility is already crushing my soul.”

He stood and kissed the top of my head. “Let’s take a break. Get some air. Maybe go for one of those walks with purpose.”

“Don’t even joke.”

He pulled me up. “Come on. The perfect person is out there.”

I leaned against him and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “She better be. Because if this process gets any weirder, I’m going to seriously look into the legalities of adopting Suzy Shortcake.”

Cal chuckled. “We’ll find the right person to bring our child into the world. Just you wait and see.”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “I hope so.”

I wasn’t sure what annoyed me the most—the fact that the baby boutique was so obsessively pastel, or the fact that I thought it would be a great idea to go shopping for baby clothes with Angus and Mr. Banks in an attempt to buoy my sinking hopes of finding the right surrogate.

Nevertheless, there we were, the three of us, while Mrs. Mulroney was busy meeting with several estate agents to sell her business and Cal was busy with yet another lunch meeting with Hal Chambers.

I tried hard to focus on being in the moment… in a shop called Onesie Upon A Time .

Everywhere I looked there were miniature cardigans, woodland creature hats, and booties so tiny they looked like knitted finger puppets.

Angus, still in his pajama pants, held up a tiny pair of corduroy overalls with a matching beanie that had antler ears. “Okay. This baby is either going to look like a lumberjack’s best friend or someone who celebrates Christmas all year round. Either way… adorbs!”

I squinted at it. “I seriously don’t want clothes that will make the baby look taxidermied.”

“I love it. We’re getting three,” he said, folding the outfits over his arm like there was nothing up for discussion.”

Mr. Banks emerged from behind a rack of baby tops, one of which read I Get My Good Looks From My Dad . “This one’s perfect. Has the truth printed right on it. Now all we need is the child. And possibly the good looks.”

“Maybe add resilience and a can-do attitude to that list,” I sighed, then slumped onto the edge of a display bench stacked with plush endangered animals. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so down in the dumps. I’m just… discouraged. This is harder than I thought.”

Angus sat beside me instantly. “The surrogacy stuff?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I knew it would be emotional. I just didn’t know how weirdly clinical it would feel.

Check this box. Filter that personality.

Scroll through smiling strangers and somehow guess if one of them is the beginning of your family.

I thought it’d feel magical. But so far, it’s just… awkward and terrifying. ”

Mr. Banks joined us, holding a stuffed lemur like it was both comforting and suspicious. “Well, good news—families aren’t built by spreadsheets. They’re built by love. You’re already on your way.”

“I know,” I said. “I just want to feel that click. That thing you feel when you know .”

“Like the way we clicked?” Angus said to Mr. Banks, elbowing him.

“Exactly,” I said, smiling. “You two… you’re a perfect match. In another universe, you’d be the ultimate father and son.”

Angus lit up. “You think so?”

“Totally,” I said. “You already are , in a way.”

Angus looked at Mr. Banks, all wide-eyed affection. “I’d love to have you as my dad.”

Mr. Banks softened. “And I’d be proud to have a son like you.”

They grinned at each other, before Mr. Banks added, “Once upon a time, I wanted to have a dozen little babies. I came close too, after falling in love with the woman of my dreams. She was a Hawaiian princess, as pretty as a seashell. She rode side-saddle on horseback, played the ukulele, knew every constellation by name. We met at a moonlit luau one night, sometime after Pearl Harbor and before that fateful three-hour tour of the SS Minnow. I’d just washed ashore after my own schooner accident, sunburned and smelling like rum-soaked adventure that no man should ever speak of.

She smelled like volcanoes and destiny,” he continued wistfully.

“We danced under the palm trees. I almost asked her to marry me, but alas—her family forbade it. Said I was too unpredictable. Too untamed. And also, I was wearing someone else’s pants at the time. Long story.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, what happened?”

“I left at dawn. Shirtless. Heartbroken. Sunburned beyond reason. But I’ve never forgotten her.”

Angus smiled and patted Mr. Banks on the shoulder. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to sow your wild seeds. But it doesn’t matter that you’re not my dad. Because you’re my best friend, and that’s all that matters.

Mr. Banks nodded solemnly. “You’re mine too. Even if you do chew too loudly and put syrup on eggs like a sociopath.”

Angus beamed. “You love me anyway.”

“I tolerate you deeply.”

They leaned against each other like it was the most natural thing in the world—Angus in plaid pajama pants, Mr. Banks holding a stuffed lemur like it was sacred. Although on any given day, it could have been the other way around.

And I just… watched them. This strange, perfect pairing. These two chaotic souls who somehow made each other feel like home.

Maybe that’s what I was really looking for in all this.

Not perfection.

Not some airbrushed ideal from a brochure.

Just that.

That click. That weird, wonderful, unmistakable click where people fit.

Family wasn’t something you found. It was something you recognized.

And the second you saw it—you held on.

Tightly.

With both hands.

And maybe a plush lemur.