You’re in the produce aisle, reaching for a ripe orange, when you notice him. Tall, impeccably dressed, with an air of quiet authority. He doesn’t belong here—not in this small-town supermarket, not under these harsh fluorescent lights. But he’s here, and now he’s watching you.

He steps closer, moving deliberately, until he’s standing just a few feet away. His dark eyes are unreadable, and his expression is calm, almost unnervingly so. Without introducing himself, he speaks, his voice low and steady.

“I have a proposition for you,” he says. “It may sound unusual, but I believe you’re the right person.”

You freeze, the orange slipping from your hand into the basket below. You don’t say anything, unsure if he’s addressing you or someone else, but when you glance up, his gaze is fixed on you.

“I’m looking for someone to carry my child. Nine months. You’ll be paid more money than most people see in a lifetime.” He pauses, watching your reaction. “You won’t have to want for anything.”

The air feels heavier, like time itself has slowed. You want to say something—ask him why, ask him how he could say something so outrageous in the middle of a grocery store—but the words don’t come. Instead, you stand there, gripping the basket, unsure if this is some kind of dream.

He seems to sense your hesitation. Slowly, he takes a sleek black card from his pocket and offers it to you. His fingers are long, his movements precise. The card is simple—just an address. No name, no details.

“Come to my home tomorrow,” he says softly. “I’ll explain everything then.” His tone is calm but firm, leaving no room for questions.

Before you can respond, he turns and walks away, his polished shoes clicking against the tile floor.

The next day, curiosity gets the better of you. The address leads you to a sprawling mansion surrounded by iron gates and trees so tall they block the sun. You hesitate, but the gate opens for you as if it’s been expecting you.