Chapter 1: The Wager Begins
The lightbulb flickered, casting a jumpy shadow over the spilled sugar on the desk. Mathilda watched the granules glow and then go dull, over and over, because it was easier than looking at the thing Kira had placed on her patchwork quilt.
“It’s simple,” Kira said, her voice a low, conspiratorial hum that filled the tiny room. She perched on the edge of the rickety desk, one leg swinging. “Whoever backs out first, loses. Whoever lasts the full contract… wins. Think of the money, Mattie. Think of never having to worry about this dump’s rent again.”
Mathilda’s fingers twisted in the worn fabric of her skirt. The air was thick, tasting of dust and the cold, metallic scent coming from the sealed kit. Her eyes, wide and blue, finally lifted from the quilt to Kira’s sharp green gaze. “Lasts how long?”
“Six cycles.” Kira leaned forward, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “One insemination attempt per cycle. Mrs. Gorham explained it. You just… are available. That’s the job.”
“It’s not a job,” Mathilda whispered. Her chest felt tight, her small frame seeming to shrink further into the sagging mattress. “It’s her… wanting a baby. With our… contributions. It’s weird, Kira. It’s so weird.”
“It’s five thousand dollars each, per successful cycle. Thirty grand if she gets pregnant from one of us.” Kira’s smile was all teeth. “My ass is perfect for birthing hips. You, on the other hand…” Her gaze traveled down Mathilda’s slender form, a mocking pity in her eyes. “Let’s just say you’re more of a challenge. Maybe that’s why she agreed to the wager. Loves an underdog.”
Mathilda flinched. She looked down at her own body, the gentle slope of her A-cup breasts barely disturbing the fabric of her shirt, the childish narrowness of her hips. She felt like a collection of twigs next to Kira’s confident curves. The whole plan felt like a dare that had spiraled out of a late-night, wine-drunk conversation, now terrifyingly solid and sitting on her bed.
“I don’t think I can,” she breathed.
“You have to.” Kira hopped off the desk and picked up the kit. It was a plain white box, cold and medical. She opened the flap and pulled out a clear, cylindrical device with a plunger and a capped end. It looked obscenely clinical. “She dropped these off. One for each of us. We use it on her designated days. We leave the… sample… in the mini-fridge in the hall. She collects it. No interaction. Just business.”
Mathilda stared at the device. Her stomach turned. “It’s so… impersonal.”
“That’s the point!” Kira laughed, a bright, hard sound. “It’s not about sex. It’s about biology. And money. And me winning.” She tossed the device to Mathilda, who caught it against her chest with a shocked gasp. It was cooler than she expected. “Your first cycle starts tomorrow. Think of England, or whatever.”
“Kira…”
“What? Scared?” Kira folded her arms, her head tilted. “You agreed. We shook on it. Whoever chickens out pays the other’s rent for a year. You can’t afford your rent as it is, let alone mine.”
The weight of the agreement pressed down on Mathilda, heavier than the quilt. She had agreed. It had seemed abstract then, a hilarious, impossible story they’d tell later. Now it was a cold cylinder in her hands and her landlady’s intense, hopeful eyes from their brief, awkward meeting in the foyer.
Kira walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Look, it’s just a body thing. Close your eyes, think of something else, get it done. It’s five minutes of weirdness for a stack of cash.” She flashed another grin. “I, for one, am not squeamish. See you in the morning. Don’t stay up all night thinking about it.”
The door clicked shut. The flickering light seemed to slow, the shadows deepening in the corners of the cluttered room. Mathilda was alone with the device.
She set it down carefully, as if it were explosive. Her heart thumped a ragged rhythm against her ribs. She stood and walked to the small, tarnished mirror nailed to the wall. She looked at her reflection—the girl with the anxious eyes and the hair that was too fine, the body that had never quite matured into the promises of womanhood. She looked, she thought, like a child playing dress-up in an adult’s terrible game.
How was she supposed to do this? Her body didn’t feel like a vessel for anything; it felt like a cage of nerves and bone. The clinical nature of it didn’t help. It made it worse, reducing something profoundly intimate to a sterile transaction. She thought of Mrs. Gorham, a severe, elegant woman in her forties, waiting downstairs in her perfectly ordered apartment, hoping for a miracle from one of two terrified girls.
A wave of nausea climbed her throat. This was a mistake. A huge, irreversible mistake.
She turned from the mirror and her eyes fell again on the white box. A single piece of paper was tucked under it. She hadn’t noticed before. With trembling fingers, she pulled it out.
It was a printed schedule. Cycle Day 1, it read at the top. Two time slots were listed. Kira Reynolds: 7:00 AM. Mathilda Greene: 7:15 AM.
Followed by a single, handwritten line in precise, looping script: “Adequate hydration is recommended. Please ensure the sample is fresh.”
The mundane instruction, so at odds with the enormity of the act, broke something in her. A hysterical sob caught in her chest. She crumpled the paper and let it fall, sliding down the wall to sit on the threadbare rug, her arms wrapped around her knees.
Outside, she heard the floorboard in the hall creak. Then another. Slow, measured steps approaching her door. They stopped right outside.
There was no knock. Only the sound of quiet breathing on the other side of the thin wood, and the faint, sweet scent of Mrs. Gorham’s jasmine perfume seeping through the crack at the bottom.
Mathilda held her breath, her blood turning to ice. The footsteps, after a suspended moment, retreated softly back down the hall.
The silence they left behind was deafening. The game, it seemed, was already watching.