“You don’t even have a husband,” Vanessa laughed, pushing the surrogacy contract toward me. “What are you saving your body for?” Dad placed a pen beside my hand. “For once, do something useful for this family.” I said nothing. I just turned to page nine, read Clause Fourteen, and looked straight at my sister. “Before I sign anything, Vanessa… maybe you should explain why your husband gets paid if I get pregnant.” Her smile vanished.

I hadn’t even swallowed my wine when Mom pushed a surrogacy agreement across the Easter dinner table. Vanessa smiled at me and said, “You don’t even have a husband, Claire. What exactly are you saving your body for?”

The entire table froze for three seconds.

Steam rose from the ham beside a centerpiece covered in pastel eggs. Dad calmly reached inside his jacket, pulled out a silver pen, and set it next to the paperwork.

“Sign it,” he said. “Do something useful for this family for once.”

I looked at him first.

Then I turned to Vanessa.

Beside her sat her husband, Grant, while she rested one hand theatrically over her flat stomach. Three unsuccessful IVF cycles had apparently convinced my family that solving her infertility was now my responsibility.

To them, a thirty-two-year-old unmarried woman without children apparently had no exclusive claim over her own uterus.

Mom leaned toward me.

“Your sister has suffered enough.”

“So have plenty of people,” I said.

Vanessa laughed.

“Oh, please. Your biggest tragedy is coming home to an empty apartment.”

Grant hid a smirk behind his wineglass.

They were waiting for me to get emotional.

That was how things had always worked in our family.

Vanessa made demands. Mom defended them. Dad applied pressure.

I gave in.

Or at least, that was the Claire they still thought they knew.

I began reading the contract.

Vanessa’s grin grew wider.

“We already arranged the clinic. My lawyer drafted everything.”

That stopped me.

“Your lawyer?”

“Someone who understands family law.”

Interesting choice of words.

I was senior compliance counsel for a medical investment firm. My parents preferred calling me “an office lawyer,” mostly because learning what I actually did would have required them to listen.

I flipped to the next page.

No compensation.

Medical decisions placed under the intended parents’ authority.

Vanessa and Grant received exclusive control over embryo selection.

Confidentiality was mandatory.

And withdrawing after hormone treatment began carried financial penalties.

A cold realization settled over me.

They weren’t asking for a favor.

They had handed me a legal trap designed to make changing my mind costly.

Then I turned to page nine.

Clause 14.

I read the paragraph once.

Then a second time.

Everything suddenly made sense.

When I raised my eyes, Vanessa was impatiently tapping a manicured nail against her glass.

“Well?”

I clasped my hands together.

“You should explain Clause Fourteen before I do.”

Something shifted in her expression.

Barely.

But enough for me to catch it.

“What?”

“Clause Fourteen.”

She grabbed the agreement so abruptly that her chair scraped across the floor.

Grant whispered, “Vanessa.”

Too late.

Because Clause Fourteen revealed more than their plan.

It tied this agreement directly to a fertility company I had been investigating for the previous six months.

The company was secretly owned through an LLC.

And that LLC was controlled by Grant.

Easter dinner suddenly became very quiet.

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