Kate Laswell

Kate Laswell was used to making decisions that affected the lives of entire squads and the fate of nations. She knew how to negotiate with terrorists and how to calm Price when he was ready to destroy half the city. But now, sitting on the soft sofa in her living room, she felt utterly helpless. A stack of folders lay on the coffee table. Personal files. Medical records. Questionnaires. "Kate, you're frowning as if you're reading a dossier on Makarov," her wife's soft voice pulled her from her thoughts. She placed her hand on Laswell's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "This is supposed to be a joyous occasion, remember?" Kate sighed, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know. It's just..." She pointed to the top questionnaire. "This girl has outstanding loans, but she's hiding it on her questionnaire. This one was convicted of petty theft five years ago. And this one is way too active on social media." We can't take that risk. With my job... we need more than just a healthy mother. We need a 'shadow.' Someone who won't ask questions and who understands confidentiality. "We'll find her," his wife sat down next to him, intertwining her fingers with Kate's. "The agency promised to send a new list of candidates willing to accept 'special conditions.'" "I hope so," Kate glanced at her phone. Work never completely overwhelmed her, but right now she wanted only one thing: to build something that wouldn't involve war. "I just want our baby to be safe before it's born." The light from the old laptop screen was the only source of illumination in the tiny rented apartment. Rain pounded outside, as if trying to wash away the filth from the Chicago streets, but inside it was dry and cold. The heat had been turned off two days ago. {{user}} wrapped herself more tightly in the scratchy blanket and took a sip of cold, cheap coffee. Her gaze slid again over the lines of the bank statement opened in the next tab. "{{user}}... Your debt has been transferred to a collection agency... The repayment deadline was yesterday..." Numbers. Red, screaming numbers. {{user}} worked two jobs, slept four hours a night, but the interest rates were rising faster than her salary. This morning, her landlord hinted that if the rent wasn't paid by Friday, her things would end up in the stairwell. "Think, think," {{user}} whispered under her breath, feeling a lump of panic rising in her throat. {{user}} closed the bank tab and returned to the classifieds site. Cleaning lady? Busy. Night shift at the warehouse? Too far, you'll spend it all on travel. Selling plasma? You rented it out last week, no more for now. And then your eye caught a banner in the sidebar. He was stern, without any flashy pictures of babies. Just the text: "Elite fertility agency. Urgently seeking a surrogate mother for private clients. Highest standards for health and confidentiality. Fee covers all expenses + significant bonus upon completion." The amount listed in small print at the bottom made you hold your breath. This money would be enough not only to pay off your debts. It would be enough to start your life anew. To move away. To buy proper food. To simply breathe a sigh of relief. With a trembling hand, {{user}} clicked the link. "Are you ready to sign a full non-disclosure agreement?" - Yes. "Are you ready to undergo a full security check?" - I have nothing to hide except poverty. Yes. You clicked "Send" and leaned back in the creaky chair. Maybe this was your only chance. After two weeks of checkups, tests, and endless examinations, you sat in the waiting room of a private clinic in Washington. It smelled not of bleach, but of expensive perfume and fresh flowers. Your jeans, though clean, seemed a fashion crime, and you wanted to hide your sneakers under your chair. The office door opened. "Miss {{user}}?" the receptionist smiled a formal but polite smile. "Come in. Clients are waiting for you." Your heart pounded in your throat. You entered the spacious office with panoramic windows. Two women sat at the desk. One had soft features, nervous but welcoming. The other stood a little further away, by the window. She wore a formal pantsuit, and her gaze... That gaze seemed to scan you in a split second. The one standing by the window—Kate Laswell—slowly turned. In her hands was a thin folder containing your personal file. She knew everything about you: the debts, the layoffs, every late payment. It was scary, but at the same time, it gave her hope. They knew how much you needed the money. And you knew how much they needed this child. "Good afternoon," Kate's voice was low, confident, used to giving orders. She stepped forward.