When my rival sneered that I was probably a thirty-year-old virgin, I dug my nails into my own neck until four red crescents bloomed on my skin. “See this?” I purred, tilting my head. “My boyfriend has a thing for biting.” He let out a short, derisive laugh. “Please, Sloane. What man would ever want you?” Later, when I was sobbing outside an OB/GYN clinic, that same rival appeared, his face a thundercloud. “Who’s the bastard? I’ll kill him.” He clenched his fists. “Stop crying. You and the baby… I’ll take you both.” 1 I woke up tangled in silk sheets with a man. A very naked man. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the man wasn't just anyone. It was Carter Hayes, my sworn enemy. In the elite circles of New York’s Upper East Side, it was common knowledge that the bad blood between the Astor and Hayes heirs could fill the Hudson River. Last night, at a penthouse party, we’d lost a round of stupid drinking games and the forfeit was a kiss. After it was over, Carter had leaned back into the velvet couch, a lazy, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “A little clumsy for a pro, Sloane. First time?” Fueled by rage and three too many martinis, I’d slipped into the bathroom and pinched my own neck, hard, creating a makeshift hickey. I made sure he saw it when I came back out. “See this? My boyfriend’s handiwork,” I’d lied through my teeth. “He’s… incredible. A million times better than you.” For a fleeting moment, Carter’s easy confidence had faltered. His eyes, dark and unreadable, had locked onto the mark on my skin. Then he’d scoffed. “Please, Sloane. What man would ever want you?” Maybe losing to me stung his pride, because for the first time in his life, Carter Hayes—a man who prided himself on control—drank himself into oblivion. I’d volunteered to get him home, planning to snap a few humiliating photos for future blackmail. Except the tables turned. The predator became the prey. I was the one who got devoured all night long. Dammit. I bit my lip, trying to inch away from the arm slung possessively around my waist. The moment I moved, he pulled me tighter, his handsome face nuzzling into the curve of my neck. His voice was a low, sleepy rumble. “Mila, baby, be good… just a little longer…” Mila? Oh, that is just perfect. He’s still half-asleep from our marathon of sin, and he’s whispering another woman’s name. Asshole. It took every ounce of strength I had to slip out of his grasp and off the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, my legs buckled, a dull ache spreading through me. I nearly collapsed right there. The room was a disaster zone. A testament to a wild night. There was the ghost of a champagne spill on the balcony railing, a silk stocking caught on a chair leg… my silk stocking. Flashes of the night replayed in my mind—hot, fragmented, and dizzying. Carter’s hands on my ankles, his grip on my waist, the way he’d lifted me… I was about to slap myself, to ask myself why the hell I hadn’t fought back, when my gaze fell back on the bed. On him. My hand froze mid-air. That body, those muscles, that… size. Honestly, who could resist? I’d just pretend I’d hired a ridiculously expensive, top-shelf escort for the night. And I hadn’t even had to pay. 2 There’s an unwritten rule among the women in my circle: when you pay for it, you keep it quiet. You can show the abs, never the face. If word got out that I’d slept with Carter Hayes, I wouldn’t be able to show my face in Manhattan again. Ignoring the soreness in my body, I moved with methodical precision, erasing every trace of my presence. I wiped down surfaces, collected my scattered clothes, and plumped the pillows. Carter started to stir once, and I panicked, leaning over to kiss him, murmuring soothing nonsense until he fell back asleep. It was a purely strategic move. Mostly. I slipped out of his penthouse and found refuge in a 24-hour deli, a wave of relief washing over me as I sank onto a stool. Then, my phone buzzed. It was him. His voice, raspy with sleep, was a magnetic hum. “Sloane, where are you?” The sound of it sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, my mind immediately flashing to him whispering in my ear last night, telling me to relax. My face grew hot. “What… what do you want?” I stammered. “Did you bring me home last night?” “Yeah, well, I was on my way home anyway. I just wanted to see what a mess you were drunk.” He didn’t trade barbs with me like he usually would. His voice was low, serious. “Did you sleep here?” I steeled myself. “...Yeah. I was dizzy, so I crashed in your guest room. I left this morning.” “You weren’t in my bed?” “...No,” I said, my grip tightening on my phone. “In your dreams, Hayes! Why would I ever want to sleep in your bed?” “…” Silence. Just then, a couple of NYU students jostled past me, bumping my shoulder and making me yelp. Carter’s voice cut through the line, sharp and sudden. “Are you with a guy?” I seized the opportunity. “Oh, yeah, my boyfriend. We’re about to have a very romantic breakfast. What did you want?” His tone was flat, devoid of emotion. “Nothing. Must have been a dream. Forget it.” A dream? A wet dream, more like. Good. It was better this way. There was no way he’d figure it out. After all, I had a decade of experience cleaning up the evidence of my father’s affairs for my mother. I was a pro. Still, just to be safe, after I hung up, I opened Instagram. I found a stock photo of a generically handsome, muscular guy, photoshopped a picture of my own face next to his, and posted it with a caption of three lipstick-kiss emojis. My little performance worked perfectly. The next month was blissfully quiet. Carter didn’t suspect a thing. He didn’t even call or text. I finally let my guard down, throwing a party to celebrate my freedom. But as I raised a glass of champagne to my lips, a wave of nausea hit me, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. 3 The paper in my hand felt flimsy, unreal. But the words were stark and undeniable. Pregnant. Was Carter Hayes some kind of fertility god? One shot, one goal? The doctor’s question echoed in my head: “Have you thought about whether you want to keep it?” My head throbbed. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and pretend this wasn’t happening. But life had other plans. As I sat on a bench outside the clinic, my phone rang. My mother. “Sloane! I just got a call from Katherine. She said she saw you at an OB/GYN. Are you pregnant?” A strange mix of shame and a desperate need to confide washed over me. My voice cracked. “Mom, listen, I think… I think I want to keep…” She cut me off, her voice like ice. “Get rid of it. Immediately.” “I’ve already found the perfect match for you. You’ll come home, you’ll get married, and we will secure that East Side property deal. We need to stabilize your father’s position before…” I flinched, as if she’d slapped me. It was like a bucket of ice water over my head, a cold that seeped past my skin and into my bones. “Mom… you didn’t even ask how I am? Or who the father is? You just want me to get rid of it?” “Who the father is doesn’t matter. Your half-brother is climbing the ranks at the company. I will not let that woman’s son steal what is rightfully ours.” “Is that all I am to you? A pawn in your war with Dad’s mistress for his affection?” “Don’t be dramatic. If you had been a boy, do you think I would have had to fight so hard? It’s not my fault I had a daughter. But I’ve never let you want for anything, have I? All I’m asking is for you to marry someone. How can you say such a thing to your own mother?!” “‘Just marry someone’? Mom, do you have any idea how I feel?” My hand holding the phone was trembling with rage. “Just like every time you needed money, you’d stage a scene, catching Dad with one of his women. You’d pretend to let me comfort him, to help him clean up his mess, and he’d pay me a fortune in hush money that always ended up in your account!” “Mom, I’m done. I don’t want this sick, transactional life you’ve chosen for yourself.” There was a beat of cold silence on the other end. “I don’t care what you think you want. You have one week to terminate this pregnancy and come home to sign the marriage license. If you don’t, you can consider yourself disowned. You won’t see another dollar from this family.” The line went dead. A sob tore from my throat. I crumpled over, burying my face in my hands, not caring who saw me. My phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the pavement. Through the blur of my tears, a pair of gleaming leather dress shoes entered my vision. “Well, well. The great Sloane Astor. I never knew you could look this pathetic.” A familiar, taunting voice, laced with something that sounded almost like amusement, drifted down from above. I looked up, my vision swimming, and met the intense gaze of Carter Hayes. Why was he here? Mortified, I scrubbed at my tear-streaked face and turned away. “Leave me alone.” He didn’t move. He stood there, one hand casually tucked in his pocket, a smirk playing on his lips. “Where’s that muscle-bound boyfriend you’re always posting about? Didn’t he want to come with you? Or did he finally dump you?” He gestured vaguely at the clinic door. “Crying alone outside an OB/GYN… it gives people the wrong idea.” “I’m not pregnant!” I shot up from the bench, my voice raw. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” At that exact moment, a nurse stepped out. “Ms. Astor? Are you still wanting to schedule that termination procedure? We have an opening this afternoon, but you need to decide now.” The world stopped. Carter’s smirk vanished. His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly sharp and piercing. “Sloane. How far along are you?” Before I could answer, his gaze dropped to the crumpled lab report on the bench beside me. He bent down to grab it. 4 My heart hammered against my ribs. I lunged, snatching the paper just before his fingers could close around it, and hid it behind my back. Close call. If he saw that report, saw the date of conception, he’d know. And he would absolutely force me to get rid of it. “What the hell, Carter! A woman’s uterus is… private! You can’t just look at that!” I puffed out my chest, staring him down. “You want to know? Fine. I’m pregnant. Nine weeks. Are you happy now? You came here to laugh at the unwed mother, right?” My voice was shaking, but my gaze was defiant. Years of performing for my father had honed my acting skills to a razor’s edge. He stared at me for a long, silent moment, his eyes searching my face for a crack in the facade. The words “nine weeks” seemed to land like stones, and his expression grew colder, harder. The timeline didn’t add up to our night together. He knew that. “It’s your gym rat boyfriend’s?” he asked, his voice low. “...Yeah,” I mumbled, my heart pounding. “And he doesn’t know?” “Why… why should he?” I forced a casual shrug. “Call him,” Carter said, his face a mask of cold fury. “Call him right now. Tell him to get his ass down here.” “…” How was I supposed to call a man who didn't exist? “He… he blocked me,” I lied. “Blocked you?” Carter repeated the words, his voice dangerously quiet, like the air before a storm. “Sloane, you’re usually so loud, so arrogant. A man walks all over you, and this is how you react? This pathetic, whimpering mess?” His words were laced with a讥讽 and a strange, simmering anger. Wait, why was he so angry? Even for a lifelong rival, this felt personal. It was just plain cruel to mock me like this. I bit my lip, anger surging past my fear. “He didn’t dump me, I dumped him!” Carter’s laugh was cold. “Oh yeah? Then why are you crying?” “They’re… they’re tears of joy! Obviously!” He fell silent. I thought he’d finally had his fun and would leave me alone. But after a moment, he spoke again, his tone unreadable. “What are you going to do about the baby?” The words came out before I could even think. “I’m keeping it.” In that moment, I knew it was true. My mother’s phone call hadn’t just broken my heart; it had clarified everything. If I didn’t go back and play by her rules, she was done with me. For her, I was a tool, and a broken tool gets thrown away. When you’ve never truly been loved, you develop a terrifying kind of clarity. This baby… this baby might be the only family I ever really have. “Keeping it?” Carter scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Sloane, are you that obsessed with that piece of trash? You’d ruin your life to have his kid? I never took you for the type to lose your mind over a man.” See? He was just here to gloat. The bastard. I couldn’t let him see me like this, so vulnerable and broken. I turned my back on him and walked away. 5 It turned out I had overestimated even the conditional love my mother had for me. I went home to pack a bag, to grab my things. I wasn’t even allowed through the front door. The butler brought my suitcase out and left it on the curb. I stared at it, numb, before kneeling to stuff the clothes that had spilled out back into the case. As I zipped it shut, the sky opened up. A cold, miserable rain began to fall. I didn’t get far before the rain turned into a torrential downpour, the sky growing dark and menacing. I was soaked to the bone, shivering, desperately looking for some kind of shelter when a pair of blinding headlights cut through the gloom. A black sedan screeched to a halt in front of me. The window rolled down, revealing Carter Hayes’s impossibly handsome face. He had one hand on the steering wheel, his gaze flicking from my drenched form to my suitcase. I instinctively tried to hide it behind me. “...Fancy meeting you here,” I managed, my teeth chattering. “I’m just, uh, heading on a little trip.” He didn’t say a word. He just pushed his door open and got out of the car. As he walked toward me, a wave of humiliation washed over me. I stumbled backward. “Carter, don’t. Don’t come over here to mock me. I don’t have the energy to fight with you today… just leave me alone, please…” My plea was cut short as the ground disappeared from beneath my feet. He’d scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing, hooking my suitcase with his other hand. “You’re keeping the baby, and this is how you take care of yourself? By standing in a freezing rainstorm?” His voice was a low growl. “Are you an idiot, Sloane?” There he goes again… He deposited me in the backseat of his car, grabbing a towel from somewhere to roughly dry my hair and face before cranking the heat to full blast. I felt dizzy and exhausted. I wanted to say something, to argue, but my body gave out. I leaned my head against the leather seat and fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in Carter’s bed. I was tucked under two heavy comforters, and my feet were wrapped in a separate blanket. No wonder I was sweating. I could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. It was Carter, cooking. When he saw me emerge, he strode over, his long legs covering the distance in seconds. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “No fever. Do you feel sick?” I shook my head. He led me to the small dining table. “Eat this first. Then go take a hot shower.” “…Okay.” I was starving. I didn’t have the energy to question his sudden kindness. I just picked up the bowl of porridge and started eating. “Slow down. No one’s going to steal it from you. You look pathetic.” He reached out and wiped a grain of rice from the corner of my mouth. I slapped his hand away, glaring at him. “Stop calling me pathetic!” “Alright, alright. You’ve got some food in you, you’ve got your energy back. You know how to glare again.” He smirked, that familiar, infuriating smirk. He pulled out a cigarette, but just as he was about to light it, he paused. He looked at me, then at the cigarette, and then he tossed the entire pack into the trash. I blinked, a flicker of warmth spreading through my chest. “You don’t have to do that. I can leave…” He ignored me, sliding my phone across the table. “I silenced it while you were sleeping. It’s been blowing up. Your mother.” He had seen the texts. The vile, manipulative messages about the forced marriage. Humiliation washed over me. I snatched the phone and shoved it under my thigh, pretending it didn’t exist. But karma, as they say, is a bitch. A few moments later, his phone rang. “You little bastard, you finally answer! Where is my granddaughter-in-law? If you don’t bring her to me this instant, what good are you…” Carter held the phone away from his ear, a roguish grin on his face. “Grandpa, I’m a little busy making a new grandchild with her right now. Gotta go.” He hung up. The air felt thick with awkwardness. I finished my porridge in record time and stood up. “Thanks for the food. I should get going…” “Sloane.” He stopped me. His voice, usually dripping with sarcasm, was suddenly serious. I turned back. “What?” “Marry me.” “Okay… wait, what?!” 6 I was still in a daze when we walked out of the City Clerk’s office, marriage certificate in hand. I, Sloane Astor, had married Carter Hayes. If this news got out, half of Manhattan’s elite would drop dead from shock. Oh, and I was pregnant with another man’s baby. That would probably take care of the other half. Carter finished a video call with his grandfather and walked back over to me. Seeing me standing precariously at the top of the steps, he wrapped an arm around my waist, his touch surprisingly natural. “Pregnant women shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. Don’t you know that’s dangerous?” The casual intimacy felt foreign. I stiffened, trying to pull away. “Don’t… don’t touch me.” “Mrs. Hayes,” he murmured, leaning in so close his lips brushed against my nose. “It’s legal now. This is called ‘cherishing my wife.’ It’s commendable behavior.” His voice was a low, warm rumble, and the way he said “wife” sent a strange heat spreading through my cheeks. My mind flashed back to that night, to the things he’d whispered, the way his body had trembled against mine… “What are you daydreaming about? Who are you thinking about?” His fingers squeezed my waist, a playful punishment. The word “who” sent a jolt of panic through me. “The baby isn’t yours!” I blurted out. The words hung in the air. I looked up and met his gaze. His eyes had gone dark, his expression thunderous. He looked like he wanted to eat me alive. “Sloane, we just got married, and you’re still thinking about that muscle-bound deadbeat?” “Well… just a little. Casually,” I mumbled. His eyes got even colder. Did I say something wrong? Ugh, my life was a mess. My mortal enemy was now my benefactor. We had signed a contract: a one-year marriage in exchange for fifty million dollars. He got his family off his back, and I got… well, I got fifty million dollars. For the money, I could endure. I puffed out my chest. “This is just a contract marriage. It’ll be over in a year. I’ll take my baby and go. I promise I won’t cause you any trouble.” I added, for good measure, “And you know I could never, ever fall for you.” His expression, which had been cold, now looked like it was carved from ice. God, this man was impossible to please. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You seem to have it all figured out, don’t you?” “Of course! I’m a professional! I’ll fulfill all my duties to the letter!” I chirped, trying to sound enthusiastic. “All your duties? Including the basic ones?” “Which are?” “Sleeping with me.” My eyes went wide. “I’m pregnant! How am I supposed to—!” He smirked. “Does being pregnant affect your mouth?” It took me a second to understand. When I did, my face burned. “Carter Hayes, you are a shameless pig—” My words were cut off as his mouth crashed down on mine. It was a fierce, punishing kiss, fueled by a strange anger that made my lips ache. I whimpered in protest, but he held the back of my head, deepening the kiss until I was breathless. I finally managed to bite his lip and push him away, gasping for air. “Carter! Your kissing is still as terrible as it was that night—” Shit. Freudian slip. His eyes narrowed. I quickly backpedaled. “—as terrible as it was compared to my ex-boyfriend! He was a much better kisser!” Between confessing and digging a deeper hole, I chose the hole. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “An ex-boyfriend this, an ex-boyfriend that… right in front of your new husband. You’ve got guts, Sloane. You really think I can’t find him?” Of course you can’t, I thought. How do you find someone who doesn’t exist? I couldn’t imagine he had that kind of power. 7 I was wrong. He had exactly that kind of power. Three days later, when Carter dragged a man into our living room, my jaw hit the floor. “Him… he’s…” “Hudson Pierce,” Carter said, his voice flat. “Third son of the Pierce family. A spoiled, useless trust-fund kid. A regular at every nightclub south of 14th street. Has a list of conquests long enough to circle Central Park. At least thirty women have claimed to have attempted suicide over him.” An assistant placed a photo on the coffee table in front of me. It was the full, uncropped version of the picture I’d posted. “This is the photo you posted on your Instagram, isn’t it? The one with the face conveniently cropped out.” “….” Shit. I’d just grabbed a random photo off some obscure blog. How did I manage to pick an actual person from our social circle? Carter’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? Don’t recognize your old flame?” The evidence was irrefutable. I had no way out, unless I told him the truth. And to protect my baby, I couldn’t do that. So I gritted my teeth and nodded. The moment I did, Carter’s demeanor shifted. He kicked a chair out of his way and stood up, a dark, violent energy radiating off him. He slowly unwound his tie, wrapping it around his fist, knuckle by knuckle. The movement was elegant, but the intent was brutal. “Man, I’m sorry, I don’t know who this chick is!” Hudson Pierce yelped. It was the last thing he said before Carter grabbed him by the collar and slammed a fist into his jaw. “‘Chick’? Who gave you permission to call her that?” Carter’s voice was a low growl. “Who gave you permission to even look at her?” Punch after punch landed with a sickening thud. I could hear the impacts from across the room. It was terrifying. He’s going to kill him. “Carter, wait—” He froze, turning to look at me, his eyes dark and wild. “Feeling sorry for him?” His voice was a dangerous whisper. “Sloane, you are now Mrs. Carter Hayes. You say one more word in his defense, and I swear to God…” “…” Fine. The guy was a known womanizer. This was probably just karma. When it was over, Hudson Pierce was a blubbering, bruised mess on the floor. “Mr. Hayes, please! I swear I never slept with her! I don’t remember her!” Carter crouched down in front of him, patting his swollen cheek. “You think she’s just some girl you can sleep with and forget? You think you’re worthy of her?” He leaned in closer. “She is my wife now. And she will be my wife for the rest of her life. If you ever so much as breathe in her direction again, if a single hair from your head comes anywhere near her… I will chop you into pieces and feed you to the dogs.” … When Carter came out, there were specks of blood on his shirt. I was waiting by the door, an umbrella held over me by a bodyguard. “Are you… okay?” I asked tentatively. Did you actually kill him? “What, you want to ask about him?” “No, no! I’m worried about you! I don’t care about him at all!” I said, my eyes nervously darting past him, trying to see into the room. In the next second, I was airborne. He swept me into his arms and deposited me in the back of the car. “Still say you’re not worried about him? I saw you peeking.” He pinned me against the seat, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive light that made my heart race. “I… I wasn’t looking…” “Still lying. Sloane, what do you see in a piece of garbage like that?” “You’re… you’re too close…” I tried to push him away, but he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head. His hot breath washed over my face. “Once the baby is born, it will have my last name. Hopefully, my genes can counteract some of the damage from yours or his. Either way… a total loss.” “But we’re getting a divorce, remember?” The hand on my waist tightened. “A divorce? Don’t tell me you’re still planning on marrying that asshole.” “I…” “Sloane, you’re hesitating?” He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, and then his mouth was on mine, biting and kissing. “Right. You give me the cold shoulder, but you let him sleep with you. I’m better looking than him, I’m stronger than him, am I not? Sloane, are you blind? What kind of screwed-up taste do you have?” He sounded so… angry. My nose started to tingle. A sudden, overwhelming wave of self-pity washed over me. “Carter, you’re being mean to me again!” He froze, looking genuinely taken aback. “You’re crying now?” But his surprise only made the tears fall faster, streaming down my cheeks. He completely panicked. “Okay, I’ll stop. I’ll stop, okay?” “Waaaaah, you’re just making fun of me! I’m pregnant and you’re still so mean to me…” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I was wrong. Your husband was wrong. I’m an asshole. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, okay?” He leaned in, gently kissing the tears from my cheeks, his voice dropping to a soft, coaxing murmur. “You and the baby, I want you. I’ll take care of you both forever.” He said it while his hand slid up my thigh, his long fingers finding the hem of my dress. “Be good, Sloane, be good… let me take care of you, make you feel good, hmm?” My vision was still blurry with tears. By the time I realized what was happening, my dress was already on the floor. “Carter, what are you doing—ah…” 8 Never trust a man. One minute they’re comforting you, the next they’re… doing that. When I woke up, I was back in the bedroom of our apartment. My fingers were so sore I could barely make a fist. My collarbones and shoulders were covered in embarrassing marks. After cursing Carter’s name for a solid five minutes, I dragged myself out of bed. In the kitchen, a thermal container held a nutritious, freshly cooked breakfast. Tucked under it was a note in his distinctive, elegant handwriting. Eat this before 10, or I’ll have a fresh meal sent over. Don’t forget your prenatal vitamins. No ice water. For such an asshole, he was surprisingly thoughtful. I went into the bathroom and found that he’d lined the entire floor with non-slip mats. Even the toilet seat had been replaced with one in my favorite shade of pastel blue. I couldn’t help but smile as I stomped on the mat a little. Maybe the asshole wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps because of his meticulous care, the first trimester of my pregnancy was a breeze. I had no morning sickness at all. Though we kept our marriage a secret, my family inevitably found out. My mother started calling three times a day. Even my arrogant half-brother, who had always looked down on me, came to me, practically begging for an audience. I knew why. Carter Hayes was the heir to two of the most powerful families in the country, one with old money in New York, the other with a global empire based in London. His influence was unparalleled. I wasn’t about to let that advantage go to waste. I went straight to my father and negotiated. Believing our marriage was real, and desperate to curry favor with the Hayes family, he signed over a significant portion of his company stock to me. I took it without a moment’s hesitation, along with several properties and a few pieces from his art collection. For “good faith,” I told him. To show the Hayes family our sincerity. I felt a tiny twinge of guilt for using Carter like that. But only a tiny one. Considering my hands and mouth were sore every single day from “fulfilling my marital duties,” I figured he was getting his money’s worth. I was beginning to suspect he only married me for my looks, or maybe he had some weird pregnancy fetish. I rubbed my belly. “Baby,” I murmured, “your biological father may be an ass, but he’s taking pretty good care of you. Maybe Mommy should reward him.” I sent Carter a text. [Hey Dog-face, I want to design a custom shirt for you. Send me your measurements.] He replied instantly: [10.15 inches.] I stared at the screen. [?] [Are you a pervert? Not THAT measurement!] Carter: [3.15 inches wide. Can send a pic of current status if needed. Reply 1 for yes.] I typed back, furious: [In your dreams! It’s probably one millimeter!] 9 I paid dearly for that one-millimeter comment over the next month. But I finished the shirt. I designed it, drafted the pattern, cut the fabric, and stitched it myself. I planned to give it to him tonight, at his birthday party. But when I walked into the private room at the club, gift bag in hand, the atmosphere was all wrong. Carter was sitting on a couch, swirling a glass of whiskey, his face dark. “What’s wrong with…” I started to ask, then I saw her. The beautiful woman sitting near him. Mila. My high school classmate. And, according to rumor, the only girl Carter Hayes had ever written a love letter to. His “one that got away.” The “Mila” he’d whispered in his sleep that first morning. So that’s why he was in a mood. Love trouble. Serves the bastard right. I should have felt triumphant. But for some reason, my appetite vanished. I found an empty seat in a far corner, tucking the gift bag behind me. I shouldn’t have made him the shirt. I shouldn’t have stayed up all night embroidering his initials on the cuff. What an idiot. Sloane, get a grip. As I’d expected, Carter didn’t treat me with his usual possessive affection. He didn’t even look at me. Instead, I got a text. [Something’s come up. Stay where you are for now. I’ll have the driver take you home early.] Fine. I didn’t want to sit next to him anyway. I was planning on making a quiet exit, but things got complicated. One of the guys at the party had brought a date who’d had a little too much to drink. “…and that guy, Hudson Pierce?” she slurred, laughing. “He offered to pay me to be a surrogate for him! Can you believe it? So I took his sample to the clinic, and you’ll never guess what they told me!” She paused for dramatic effect. “The doctor said he has a genetic condition. His sperm is non-viable. He literally can’t get a woman pregnant… ever!” The table erupted in laughter. But across the room, Carter’s head snapped up. His eyes, sharp and intense, found me in my corner. I kept my head down, pretending I hadn’t heard. Two words echoed in my mind. I’m screwed.
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