The next nine months crept by slowly and in secret inside Emily's apartment, where every corner seemed to harbor a secret, every wall absorbing the muffled sound of footsteps and the anxious breathing of two sisters.
Outside, New York unfolded in rain, honking horns, and the indifferent movement of strangers. Inside, Sophie was a shadow behind drawn curtains, living at the world's edge, confined to the ritual of quiet chores, her hands busy with dishes, sewing tiny clothes, trying not to think about tomorrow.
Sometimes she leaned against the kitchen window, her face split between the glass and the half-light, staring out at the tiny backyard as if searching for a sliver of fresh air. The days followed one after the other, time twisted between fear and a clandestine hope.
In the bathroom mirror she saw herself pale, hair unkempt, eyes wide and haunted from sleeplessness. Her belly grew, round and undeniable, sheltering that secret that was also a kind of sentence.
Emily did all she could to imprint the house with a safe routine, something almost cheerful. Little Lily, bright and always laughing, learned new words, banged pots on the floor, drew stick-figure families on sheets of paper. Lucas grew up in silence, his existence known only to the family.
The birth came in the chill of early morning, wrapped in whispers and fear, the yellow lamplight stretching long shadows down the hallway. Sophie bit down on the sheet to stifle her cry. Emily gripped her hand with the force of someone who truly understands pain.
And so, with hardly a witness, Lucas came into the world: small, with faintly bluish skin, his cry thin and hesitant. Emily and Bill welcomed him with a timid love, almost ceremonial, registering him as their own, Lily's little brother.
Sophie observed it all from a distance, her heart caught between pain and relief. She would sit on the sofa, watching Emily cradle Lucas with the steady hands of someone already a mother.
She watched Bill warm bottles, smile at the boy, invent songs, dress the child with a genuine, slightly awkward but very real happiness. In those first months, Lucas seemed lighter, fed well, slept in her arms, smiled at Lily's games.
Sophie kept to the sidelines, silently celebrating every one of her son's milestones, knowing that the price for it all was anonymity and the longing buried deep in her chest, a vigilant and invisible love.
But soon the scares began: a cold that never seemed to end, a cough that wouldn't go away, sleepless nights measuring fevers, changing sheets, trying to guess whether it was just another flu or something more serious.
Lucas was thin, his bones too delicate, his skin always a little cool to the touch. The pediatrician spoke of follow-ups, tests, more appointments. Winter seemed endless, and Sophie moved through it with an old fear in her eyes; the fear that something terrible might finally find the boy she could hardly call her own.
Four years slipped by in this way: visits to doctors, rounds of medicine, short hospital stays that no longer surprised anyone in the family.
Then came the day of the diagnosis, which fell like a sentence. Lucas was hospitalized, breathing with difficulty, his body far too fragile for the sheer life that shone in his eyes.
Primary Immunodeficiency, the doctor explained, the medical words falling over Sophie and Emily like a cold rain.
Every cold was a risk, every fever an abyss.
In the immaculate office, time seemed suspended, as white and cold as the light cutting through the room. Sophie listened to the list of tests, timelines, the costs of treatment. Everything sounded distant, the words cutting through the air like knives, coming to rest among business cards and yellowed prescriptions.
When she left, she crossed the corridor with Emily. The two "mothers of Lucas" stood in the hallway, watching the boy play with his superhero figures on the waiting room bench, oblivious to the adults' anxieties.
Emily squeezed her sister's arm and promised quietly, "I'll try to get Lucas into a clinical research study. Maybe he'll qualify for experimental treatment. Until then, it'll be expensive medications, more hospital stays, endless tests."
Sophie nodded, her eyes fixed on some invisible point.
"I'll find the money, Em. Don't worry."
Sophie spoke with the serenity of someone who has made a promise to fate itself never to give up. That same week, she crossed the city to the address of Victor DeLuca's elegant modeling agency, housed in a mirrored tower near Madison Square.
DeLuca's name was a controversial one, whispered and speculated upon in New York circles.
The office smelled of expensive perfume, leather upholstery, and the weight of dangerous decisions. Sophie sat across from the sharp-eyed man, cynicism dancing at the corners of his mouth, but she held his gaze, hard, tired, but unbroken.
"I accept the job, Mr. DeLuca," Sophie said directly, her voice nearly a rough whisper. "Just as a companion. No sex, no intimate contact. I can be a personal friend. I can play daughter, fiancée, fake friend… whatever you need. For events, parties, trips… You set it up, put me wherever you want, I can start right away."
Victor laced his fingers together on the desk, studying her like someone appraising a rare artifact.
"Are you sure about this?" His question was dry, hanging between them. "Even without sex, it's a hard job."
She lowered her eyes, her nails digging into her own arm.
"I'm sure. I don't really have a choice. To save my—" Sophie caught herself, embarrassed. "To save my nephew's life, I would do anything."
A thick silence filled the room while DeLuca signed Sophie's contract with the coldness of someone who has seen too many stories end badly. In that moment, Sophie understood that for some mothers, to love is to pay the price of every sacrifice and every renunciation.