I was eighteen when I fell pregnant. Unable to support myself or a baby, I decided to place my child up for adoption. It was a closed adoption. The only condition was that I continue pumping breast milk for the adoptive family until they decided they no longer needed it.

I was an intern at a major corporate company. The CEO was brutal. He hated what he called my “milk breaks.”

It was a Friday evening when he called me into his office. My breasts ached, and even the slightest movement against my bra made them feel as though they might burst. He was sitting on the leather couch and gestured toward the chair opposite him.

Everyone else had long since gone home.

I sat down, painfully aware of how swollen I was. The buttons of my blouse strained under the pressure.

He didn’t say anything at first. He simply watched me while pouring himself a whiskey. Then he slid a black folder across the coffee table.

“Open it,” he instructed.

He had left it just out of reach, forcing me to lean forward to retrieve it.

Inside was a contract for a wet nurse.

Did the CEO have a baby I didn’t know about? As far as I knew, he was Wall Street’s most eligible bachelor.

“Sir, I’m currently contracted to another family.”

I twisted my fingers together in my lap, knowing it was a lie. They had stopped collecting my milk a couple of weeks ago. I simply hadn’t stopped pumping. I’d grown used to the routine and even found comfort in it.

Every morning I woke up and pumped before breakfast. After showering, I’d head to work and pump again in the mother’s room. I’d repeat the process at lunch, again in the middle of the afternoon, and once more before catching the bus back to my tiny apartment.

Normally, twenty minutes earlier, I would have relieved the growing pressure. Instead, I sat there aching, fighting the urge to hold myself for even the smallest bit of relief.

He gestured for me to move beside him.

I didn’t.

Instead, he stood and crossed the room before kneeling in front of me. His expression softened, almost pleading. My discomfort had become impossible to ignore.

He reached toward the buttons of my blouse.

My breath caught.

The buttons came undone far more easily than I would have liked. He carefully unclipped one side of my maternity bra, his movements slow and deliberate.

Instinctively, I reached for him, driven more by the overwhelming ache than conscious thought.

The pressure finally eased, and relief flooded through me so suddenly it left me dizzy. By the time the discomfort had faded, I felt almost weightless.

He glanced at the other side but stopped himself.

“We’ll leave that for the other family,” he murmured.

Still catching my breath, I looked back down at the contract in my lap.

He picked it up and handed it to me once more.

Without thinking too hard about the consequences, I signed.

Whether it was the relief, exhaustion, or the strange rush of emotions that followed, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that something had changed the moment I put my signature on the page.