When I posted a yacht photo, her desperate texts poured in: “His project got canceled! I can’t afford baby
formula!”
She begged for friendship, asked me to be godmother.
Then she met me with a chainsaw, screaming: “Why should you have more? Just for picking a better donor?”
I woke back at the fertility clinic–decision day.
“Lana, what’s so great about marriage anyway? Let’s do this on our own! We can be the powerful heroines of
our own lives!”
Mia shook my arm, her voice filled with a manic excitement. The sterile, familiar smell of the clinic hit me,
and a wave of dizziness confirmed it. I was reborn.
After a long string of dates with losers and creeps, Mia and I had decided to come to this exclusive clinic to
choose premium donors for IVF.
Mia’s sharp voice grated in my ear. “Lana, look! This one’s from an MIT genius. The kid would be brilliant! You
should choose this one.”
Then, without missing a beat, she pointed to the profile next to it–the one described as having a complex European aristocratic lineage. “You know me,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’m all about looks. I’ve always dreamed of a baby with those classic features. You won’t fight me for him, will you, Lana?”
In that instant, I knew. She was reborn, too. And she was making a beeline for the billionaire’s genes she tho ught would be her ticket to paradise.
She put on a show of looking out for me. “This MIT profile is a sure thing, Lana. You’d be crazy to pass it up.”
It was the complete opposite of what she’d said in our last life. I looked at her, watching the predatory gleam in her eyes, and slowly nodded.
The moment I agreed, her face lit up, and she blurted out, “Don’t you regret it!”
Regret what?
1/6
05:00
05.09
