Chapter 30 Olivia
OLIVIA
I had extremely low expectations for this rent-by-the-hour conference room.
Even that might’ve been too optimistic.
This place is Satan’s asshole. It smells like stale coffee, black mold, and sweaty armpits. The next mop that comes in here will be the first.
I’m not the only one who’s unimpressed. The five potential investors sitting around the water-stained mahogany table are skeptical, bored, disgusted, or all of the above. They look like they’ve seen much, much better.
Not from the room.
From me.
Because I’m as much of a mess as our surroundings are.
My voice cracks, I drop my notes, I fumble with the presentation remote.
Finally, I get it to work and the screen behind me flickers to life.
Everything in the room gets cast in a garish blue glow.
It bounces off their Rolex watches and Warby Parker glasses.
My hands tremble, so I tuck them behind my back and start mentally counting breaths like I tell my anxious patients.
In, out. In, out.
My mother’s “good luck” text from twenty minutes ago flashes in my mind. Suddenly, she’s sending encouraging messages? Being nice to me? Supportive?
It’s bizarre. She hasn’t done that since the day I was born. I want to count it as a win, but I know it has nothing to do with me.
Like everything else as of late, this is about Stefan.
I fight back a cringe as I remember how she’d stood frozen in my apartment door, stunned into silence for the first time in her life. And not because she’d caught her daughter in the middle of a half-clothed, morning-after routine.
No, it’s because he was there.
She took one look at Stefan and her eyes lit up. She didn’t care that his shirt was half-buttoned or that my hair was a disaster.
The only thing that mattered was that Stefan Safonov had deemed her daughter worthy of his attention.
I knew you’d find your way eventually, darling, she told me later. I always, always knew.
Yeah, well, that makes one of us, Mom.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, my voice coming out too squeaky. I clear my throat and try again, pitched lower this time. “Uh, I mean, gentlemen. Hello. Thank you for coming today.”
This is it. My last chance. If I can’t secure funding today, Aster Fertility Solutions will flatline—my dream buried under a mountain of debt and my mother’s disappointment.
It’s showtime, baby.
The man directly across from me—Donovan Benson, according to the business card he slid toward me in lieu of a greeting fifteen minutes ago—checks his watch and sighs.
“As you can see from these results,” I say, gesturing to the projection screen, “our approach prioritizes personalized care, and the outcomes justify it. We don’t process patients like they’re cars on an assembly line. Now, let’s talk about our future…”
My presentation is a blur. I practiced it countless times last night, until I knew it from memory. Thank God for that, because my body is on autopilot now.
I flip through screens, talking to the sea of faces without seeing one of them. I need this to be over, like, yesterday.
Halfway through, a throat clears. I look over to see Donovan ogling me.
“What would your expansion timeline look like with proper funding?” he asks.
His eyes keep drifting to my legs, then back to my face, considering something that, if I had to guess, has everything to do with “fertility” and nothing to do with “fertility science.” “If I invest, I want to be properly compensated.”
My skin crawls. I have a feeling he isn’t talking about financial compensation.
Before I can answer, the door swings open. Every molecule of air in the room seems to shift and rearrange itself around the man who enters.
Stefan strides in. My body recognizes him before my brain fully processes his presence—pulse quickening, skin warming, a treacherous heat pooling low in my belly.
“Gentlemen,” he says, voice cold and commanding, “thank you for attending this preliminary meeting. Unfortunately, we’ll need to reschedule for a later date.”
The investors exchange confused glances. Donovan opens his mouth to protest, but Stefan cuts him off with a look.
“My assistant will be in touch to arrange another date,” he continues. “You’ll find your cars waiting outside.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a get the fuck out before I throw you out.
I stand frozen, presentation remote clutched in my sweating palm as my potential lifelines gather their things and depart. Not one of them looks at me or offers a parting word. They file out silently, like misbehaving children sent to the principal’s office, tails tucked between their legs.
The door closes behind the last investor with a soft click. Might as well be a coffin being sealed.
My coffin, specifically.
“What are you doing?” I hiss once we’re alone.
Stefan saunters toward me. His cologne hits first, triggering memories I’ve been fighting like hell to keep buried.
I back up until I hit the edge of the presentation table.
“I’m here for your protection,” he replies, loosening his tie with one finger. He’s close enough that I feel the heat pouring off of him.
I gesture wildly at the empty chairs, trying to ignore how close he is and how little room I have to keep retreating. “You just scared away every potential investor I had!”
“Good.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “But you set this up! You arranged this meeting! You told my mother—” I cut myself off before I start to have an emotional breakdown.
“Is this about the other night? Because that was… that was business. It’s part of the contract.
You don’t owe me or… If you regret it, you can’t—” I sigh, not sure what I want to say. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Stefan pauses. He looks at me as he pulls the tie knot looser. His eyes are churning with something almost imperceptible, and I could swear the muscle along his jaw is grinding and jumping like he’s holding something back.
He leans closer. I freeze. Nowhere to go.
“If the other night was how you conduct business,” he purrs, “then I never would’ve left you alone in this room with five men.”
This— This— This—
My hand flies up to slap him, but before I can get anywhere in the neighborhood, he catches my wrist mid-air. His fingers aren’t tight, but they aren’t yielding anytime soon, either.
With one smooth motion, he pulls me against him. “This is business,” he rasps, his breath warm against my ear, “and I’ll be the only one investing in Aster Fertility Solutions.”
My anger falters. My heartbeat is thunder in my ears. “What?”
“You want money? You’ll have it.” His eyes never leave mine, gray as storm clouds with something electric lurking behind them. The brown segment is a molten gold. His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there before rising again. “Blank check. Like I promised.”
My mouth parts on an exhale I can’t stop. Our hips brush, sending electricity humming through my blood.
He wants me.
Before the thought can overwhelm me, I shove it down.
No, he doesn’t. He just said it: This is business. Nothing more.
“I don’t understand,” I say carefully. I’m still pressed against him. Neither of us is moving away. “Why set all of this up if you were just going to cancel it?”
“I thought it would be easy to delegate.” He smirks and shrugs carelessly. “Guess I didn’t like seeing men sniff around what is mine.”
He wants me.
Those three words are like a harpoon of sensation between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together to make it go away.
I should refuse him. This is already complicated enough. He’s already paying me to have his baby. Can I really take more money from him?
I can already hear Camille screaming in the back of my head. Yes, bitch! Take the money!
What I need is a practical reason to say no, to bow out of this insane situation gracefully and tactfully. I think of Walsh’s newest facility—a gleaming monument, brand new machines, all funded by some mysterious investor.
“Walsh has a new lab,” I blurt out. “State-of-the-art equipment, fully staffed. I can’t compete with just one investor backing me, even if it’s you.”
“You’d be surprised what I can provide, lisichka.” His hand moves to adjust a strand of hair that’s fallen across my face.
This is crazy, right? The voices in my head are all yelling over one another, each trying to say louder than the other, Yes, yes, it’s crazy.
But all those voices—Camille’s, my mom’s, my own—all go quiet when I look at Stefan again.
My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. His eyes follow the motion. His hand is still cuffed around my wrist, warm and rough.
I feel like I’m standing on the end of a diving board and there’s a huge drop waiting for me. One teensy toe forward and I’ll plummet. What’ll happen at the bottom is anyone’s guess. It’ll be black and cold and terrifying—that much is certain.
I open my mouth to tell him that this has all gone too far. It’s a bad idea to keep going; why don’t we just turn back to what makes sense?
What comes out instead is, “Okay.”
Stefan doesn’t smile, but I sense he’s pleased.
I hate the way that pleases me.
We exit the building side by side, my mind already racing with possibilities—new equipment, expanded staff, proper advertising.
For the first time in months, hope feels tangible. Hope has heterochromatic eyes and smells like bergamot and gunpowder,
I’m practically levitating as we enter the parking garage. Walkin’ on sunshine, as they say. More accurately, it’d be walking on fluorescent lights—the beams overhead are bright and garish, making too-dark shadows dance between the parked cars. I can still hear my own heartbeat.
Stefan places his hand on my lower back to guide me through the maze of vehicles. His palm radiates heat through the thin material of my blouse, fingertips just grazing the dip above my tailbone. Such a small point of contact, yet I’m hyperaware of every millimeter of it.
I glance over, stomach whirling at the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of a mouth I know the taste of.
It’d be so easy to…
But no. The voices in my head are demanding my attention again. They’re screaming at me that I’m being stupid, reckless, and that I need to check myself before I literally and metaphorically wreck myself.
After all, his investment might come with strings attached. Strings that look suspiciously like the sheets wrapped around us just two nights ago. What if that’s all he cares about? Conning me into bed again and again?
He’s a sick man; maybe he likes that game. Although, if he wanted to get you naked, why go to all this trouble? All he’d have to do is ask…
I start to say, “I think we should—”
Then the gunshots come.