“I’m sorry, Polina,” the speaker says as if with an electric shock. “But I don’t need a child like this. For an abortion, you’ll receive compensation. The apartment must be vacated by the end of the week. All the best.”
I agreed to become a surrogate mother for an unknown couple for a large sum of money. The first screening showed a pathology, and the customer refused the “defective” child. Further tests revealed that the baby was healthy. And one more thing—it turned out the baby was my own child: the clinic used my biomaterial.
I still don’t know who the father of my son is. But when billionaire Timur Arsanov brings his daughter to the private kindergarten where I work, my heart stops.