Desperate Games (Mergers & Acquisitions #7)

Prologue One-Andrea

Volkov-Fury Wedding, Private Island

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Whoever came up with that line?

Deserves to be slapped.

With a stiletto.

Repeatedly.

I knock back another shot of ouzo and scan the reception like I’m searching for a reason not to start sobbing into my slice of wedding cake.

It’s a sun-kissed nightmare out here.

Everyone is glowing.

Gleaming.

Pregnant.

Lee-Lee’s radiant in that floaty ivory gown, literally sparkling with sapphires and fairy-tale magic.

Aella’s got the new-mom glow, her arms protectively wrapped around her newborn son, my nephew, Samuel Angel Ramirez.

Little cutie.

Clementine’s juggling two toddlers while growing a third.

Shelly can’t stop cooing over her first.

Michaela’s probably halfway to baby number four.

And Lucy? Lucy looks ready to pop. Her man’s practically worshipping her belly like it’s holy.

And then there’s me.

No man.

No baby.

No diamond. No game plan. Not one fucking clue.

Just a ticking time bomb in my uterus and the vague, unhelpful memory of Marisa Tomei yelling my biological clock is ticking like this in My Cousin Vinny.

I should’ve listened harder.

Instead, I’m here—drunk, dateless, and dangerously close to crying at a wedding full of happily-ever-afters.

The music shifts, the lights twinkle, and I take a deep breath of ocean air, letting it sting the back of my throat.

That’s when I hear him.

“Why do you look so sad, Andy?”

Andy? No one calls me that.

The voice is deep. Velvet wrapped around danger. I glance up—and holy shit.

Dark eyes. Suntanned skin. A smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I know that face. I’ve seen it in passing—at parties, in corridors, beside Junior.

Always in the background, watching, waiting.

“I know you. What’s your name again?” I ask, blinking through the haze of good wine and worse decisions.

“I’m wounded you forgot my name, Pretty Girl.”

“Remy!” I shout, suddenly remembering him.

“Remy Falco,” he adds with a hot boy wink. “That’s right. I’m Junior’s friend.”

Junior’s friend.

Perfect.

I bite my lip.

This man is dangerous territory. The kind I like best.

Because see, I’m done waiting for fate.

I don’t want a soulmate. Don’t need one. Nope.

I want a legacy.

A baby.

My baby.

And Remy? He looks like a guy who can get the job done.

“How tall are you?” I ask, gazing up at him.

The man is big. And built.

He’s got short dark hair, a buzz cut that would look weird on most guys but seems right on him.

Green eyes glitter down at me, and his full lips pull up in a smirk that makes my panties wet.

Thick ropes of muscle cord around his enormous frame and dark tattoos peek out from his shirtsleeves and collar.

He looks like he breaks things—hearts—just for fun.

But not this girl’s heart. I won’t give him the chance for all that.

But maybe he can help me.

Hang on, though. It’s not like I don’t believe in love.

I do. God, I do.

I grew up watching it every day—hell, I lived in the shadow of it. Of Andrés and Ellie Ramirez and their great love for one another.

Truly, I mean, my parents? They’re the stuff of legend.

Ride-or-die. Epic love affair. And it is still going on.

The kind of love that writes songs and breaks curses.

The kind of love that builds an empire and still makes out in the kitchen like no one’s watching.

It’s beautiful.

And kind of impossible to live up to.

Every cousin of mine is out here falling in love like it’s a damn team sport. One by one, they’re pairing off, glowing up, popping out babies like confetti—and I’m just here.

Simply existing. Trying not to look bitter about my single ass sipping champagne alone at every family wedding like it’s a choice.

I know I’m supposed to say things like I’m focusing on my career or I love my independence.

And I do. I love my life. My work. My own space. But I want more.

So what if it’s not trendy or modern or girlboss-approved to say it out loud?

I want the fairytale.

No, not even that.

I want home.

A family. A baby. Laughter in the morning and sleepy kisses at night. Sticky fingers, cartoons, lullabies, and someone who calls me Mom with juice on their chin.

And if I can’t find a man who gets me—who sees past the sarcastic mouth and the chubby thighs and all my chaos—then I’ll just have to do it myself.

I’ll make my own damn family.

Sure, I need a sperm donor. But walking into a sterile clinic and picking a name off a clipboard? That feels so impersonal.

So clinical.

So not me.

At least this way—if I go through with it—I can tell my baby one day, yeah, I knew your father. He was real. And beautiful. And maybe I loved him for a little while. Just one night, really.

Looking at Remy now?

All that smooth skin and glittering green eyes and the kind of mouth that makes you forget your last name—I don’t think I’ll have to pretend to feel something for him.

Not at all.

Because when he looks at me with that crooked smirk and that slow, sure confidence, something in my chest flares.

Something warm.

Something hungry.

Maybe I’m not making a mistake.

Maybe I’m just making a beginning.

My way.

“So, Remy,” I say after a few more drinks and way too many stolen glances.

“Wanna see my room?”

His grin is pure trouble.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And just like that, the story changes.

Not a fairytale.

Not a romance.

But maybe? It’s the beginning of something I can have for the rest of my life.