Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ilona
The morning sun filters through the garden’s carefully manicured trees as I sit on a stone bench, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between my palms.
The warmth seeps through the ceramic, but it does nothing to calm the storm of thoughts churning in my mind. I keep replaying last night— Osip’s tortured cries, the way his body convulsed with torment in sleep.
Galina… save her… our child!
The anguish in his voice was so raw it made my heart hurt.
What could have happened to cause such vivid nightmares? I’m certain he doesn’t remember— he was too deep in sleep, lost in whatever hell his subconscious dragged him through. But the woman’s name haunts me.
Galina.
I’m almost positive it’s the pregnant woman from the photograph beside his bed. The serene beauty with her hand protectively over her belly.
Where is she now? And more importantly— where is their child?
The jealousy that spikes through me is irrational and unwelcome. I have no claim on Osip, no right to feel territorial about women from his past. But the emotion claws at my insides anyway, sharp and possessive in ways that should scare me.
If Galina is still in his life, why did he ask me to be a surrogate? Me, of all people— a broke waitress with reproductive issues that make pregnancy complicated. He could have anyone. Literally anyone. Why pick someone whose body might betray the very thing he’s paying for?
Maybe it’s the visceral pull between us. The undeniable attraction between us, the way my body responds to his presence like it recognizes something essential. Maybe he feels it too, this magnetic force that defies logic and self-preservation.
My head is still reeling from his offer. One million Euros. The chance to carry his child. Financial security for life.
I must admit, as strange as it is, it’s tempting. More than tempting— it’s a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.
It would solve all my financial problems in one stroke.
No more counting euros for groceries, no more sleepless nights wondering how I’ll make enough for rent.
And I would get to have sex with him— regularly, intimately, with purpose beyond mere pleasure.
The thought sends heat spiraling through me despite the morning chill.
If he pays for fertility treatments, I could become a mother.
Something I’d given up hope on after the endometriosis diagnosis, something that felt like a dream crushed before it could fully form.
I could never afford the procedures on my own— the medications, the monitoring, the specialized care required to give my damaged reproductive system a fighting chance.
And that’s if I ever even found a man willing to put up with all of that in the first place.
And then there’s Mom. Her financial struggles, the weight of Dad’s mysterious debts crushing her spirit day by day. I could help her. Could hire that private investigator she mentioned, finally get answers about what really happened to him.
This might be my only chance to become a mother.
I realize it with startling clarity.
But the flip side gnaws at me. What happens after the baby is born?
Do I just accept his financial support and coast for the rest of my life?
Somehow, that feels wrong— like selling pieces of myself for security.
Why does he need me anyway, when he could choose from hundreds of women who would leap at this opportunity?
It’s not your business, Ilona.
Treat it for what it is.
A business offer.
But let’s face it— I’m desperate. This proposition, insane as it sounds, might be the answer to prayers I was afraid to voice.
Taking a deep breath, I pull out my phone and type a message that will change everything.
“Offer accepted.”
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, before rational thought can interfere with what feels like the first real choice I’ve made in months.
The reply comes within a minute.
“Good. I’ll get the documents ready.”
Documents? Yup, he’s all business.
Get the romance part out of your head, Ilona!
I’m about to finish my tea and head inside to find Osip’s office when an ice-cold female voice cuts through the morning air behind me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I spin around, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup.
Standing at the garden entrance is a woman who looks like she stepped off a magazine cover— a picture of platinum blonde perfection and predatory beauty.
She’s tall, probably five-ten in the designer heels that I would never be brave enough to wear.
Her hair falls in perfect waves past her shoulders, catching the sunlight like spun gold, and her face is a masterpiece of high cheekbones and full lips painted blood red.
But it’s her eyes that stop my breath— ice-blue and filled with the kind of venom that could kill at twenty paces.
She’s dressed in a form-fitting white dress that’s clearly couture, every inch of her screaming wealth and entitlement.
Diamond earrings catch the light as she moves closer, her beautiful features twisted into an expression of pure hatred.
“I… um… I…” I stutter, trying to find my voice. “I’m the new house manager—”
“Manager?” She laughs without humor— just bitter mockery that makes my skin crawl. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
I stare at her, my cheeks flaming. “I… excuse me?”
She stalks closer. Up close, she’s even more stunning— the kind of flawless beauty that makes other women feel inadequate just by existing. But there’s something cold about her perfection, like looking at a beautiful statue carved from ice.
“Don’t think I’m an idiot. I know what you are.
And you have no place here, you little slut!
” The words come out in a hiss, dripping with so much hate I actually take a step backward.
“Osip is mine, and if I ever see your pathetic face around here again, I’ll tear every strand of hair from your worthless head! ”
I blink at the force of the threat, surprised at how violently this total stranger is reacting to me.
“Look,” I try to keep my voice steady, “I don’t know who you are, but you’re making a mistake.”
“A mistake?” she scoffs. “You’re the one making the mistake, bitch.
” She moves even closer, invading my personal space with the confidence of someone who’s never had to worry about consequences.
Her perfume— something expensive and cloying— makes my nose burn.
“Stay away from him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a whisper that’s somehow more terrifying than shouting.
“Whatever little fantasy you have playing house here, it ends now. Osip will get bored of you soon enough, and when he does, I’ll be waiting. ”
With that parting shot, she spins on her designer heels and storms away, leaving me standing in the garden like an idiot. I sink back onto the stone bench, my hands shaking so badly I have to set down my tea before I drop it.
What the hell just happened?
And who the hell was that?
But more importantly— what is she to Osip?
The jealousy that floods through me is immediate and intense, burning through my chest like acid.
Does Osip have a girlfriend?
The thought makes me feel physically sick. Here I am, agreeing to carry his child, and there’s some gorgeous blonde with a prior claim to his affections? But if that’s true, why didn’t he mention her? Why make this offer at all if he’s already involved with someone?
Because it’s business, my rational mind whispers.
Just like he said. Personal relationships have nothing to do with surrogacy arrangements.
Except nothing about what happened between us felt like business. The way he touched me, the heat in his eyes— none of that was professional or detached.
I sit in the garden for another ten minutes, trying to process what just happened and failing miserably. Questions multiply in my head like cancer cells, each one more troubling than the last. Who is she? How long have they been together? Does she know about his offer to me?
And why do I care so much?
Because you’re already attached, the honest part of my brain admits.
It occurs to me that somewhere between discovering his secret room and watching him fall apart in his sleep, I started wanting more than just a business arrangement.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it just makes me more determined to understand what I’ve gotten myself into.
One thing is clear— I need to talk to Osip. Need to know exactly what I’m agreeing to, and whether his personal life is going to complicate an already impossible situation.
But first, I need to stop my hands from shaking and find a way to wash the taste of that woman’s venom from my mouth.
Welcome to your new life, Ilona, I think grimly. Population: you, a dangerous Russian businessman, and apparently his psychotic ex-girlfriend.
This is going to be interesting.