Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ilona
I’m curled up in my bed wearing my softest pajamas— gray cotton shorts and a matching tank top that suddenly feels inadequate against the evening chill. The book in my hands is supposed to be a distraction, some romance novel I picked up months ago, but the words blur together on the page.
My mind won’t stop churning.
That woman in the garden. Her eyes filled with rage, the way she spat the word “slut” like it physically burned her tongue. The possessive fury radiating from every inch of her designer-clad frame as she claimed ownership over Osip.
Osip is mine.
Another wave of jealousy surges. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on him. This is business, nothing more. A surrogacy contract that will solve my financial problems and give him the child he wants.
But then why does the thought of that platinum blonde beauty having prior claim to his affections make me want to throw things?
I flip another page without reading it, my thoughts spiraling toward the pregnant woman in the photograph. Galina. The serene expression, the swell of her belly. Where is she now? Why does Osip keep her picture beside his bed if he’s making surrogacy arrangements with me?
Everything about this situation feels complicated in ways I didn’t anticipate when I sent that two-word text this morning.
Offer accepted.
Two words that seemed so simple, so clear-cut. Now doubt creeps through me, making me question whether I’ve made a catastrophic mistake.
Maybe I should have demanded more information before agreeing. Maybe I should have asked about ex-girlfriends and the ghosts that haunt his sleep and why a man who clearly has a type— stunning, sophisticated women— would choose someone like me for this arrangement.
The knock on my door stops my spiraling thoughts cold.
Three sharp raps that sound more like a summon than a request. My pulse jumps as I set the book aside, already knowing who’s on the other side. There’s something about the way Osip knocks— authoritative, impatient— that’s like a signature move.
I pad barefoot across the thick rug, hyperaware that I’m wearing next to nothing. The pajamas felt modest enough when I put them on, but now they seem almost indecent. The shorts barely cover my ass, and the tank top clings to curves I’m suddenly self-conscious about.
When I open the door, my breath catches.
He looms over me, all broad shoulders and animal magneticism wrapped in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that hugs his torso in ways that should be illegal.
His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes him look dangerous and sophisticated all at once.
But it’s his eyes that steal my breath— those steel-gray depths that seem to pin me in place. They rake over my barely clothed form with an intensity that makes my skin flush hot despite the evening chill.
“I think we must start putting things into action.” He gets straight to the point, his voice low and husky with something that might be restraint. He holds up a manila folder thick with papers. “Here’s the paperwork.”
Without waiting for permission, he steps into my room and moves to the nightstand, setting the folder down with a deliberate motion. The casual invasion of my space should annoy me— should trigger every boundary I’ve tried to maintain since agreeing to this arrangement.
Instead, it makes me horny, because clearly I’m out of my mind.
Yup, all business again.
Not even a hint of romance.
The clinical way he’s handling this should be exactly what I want.
Businesslike distance, clear expectations, no messy emotions to complicate an already impossible situation.
But standing here in my pajamas, watching him own my space with that quiet authority, all I can think about is how he looked naked in moonlight, saying my name in his sleep.
“You can’t just walk into my room unannounced,” I start to protest, but the words die in my throat as he turns to face me fully.
The air between us seems to heat. My body responds to his proximity like it’s been programmed specifically for his frequency— nipples tightening beneath thin cotton, pulse racing, every nerve ending suddenly alive and hypersensitive.
He moves closer, slow and deliberate. The space between us shrinks to inches, then less than inches, until I can feel the warmth of him against my bare skin. The scent of him makes my head spin with want.
The tension stretches between us like a live wire, magnetic and undeniable. His gray eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes, asking a question I’m desperate to answer.
“Stop.” The word tears from my throat, taking every ounce of willpower I possess to voice it. “We need to talk.”
He freezes, those sharp eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I want him to find. The disappointment that flickers across his features is so brief I almost miss it, replaced quickly by careful neutrality.
“What about?” His voice is rougher now, affected despite his attempt at control.
“The woman in the garden today.” I take a step back, needing distance to think clearly. “The blonde who threatened to tear my hair out if she ever sees me again.”
Something dangerous flickers in his expression— a flash of violence so quick and deadly I’m reminded that this man is probably capable of things I can’t even begin to imagine.
“You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”
The dismissive tone makes frustration spike through my chest.
“What do you mean? She called me a slut! She acted like she had some kind of claim on you.”
“She doesn’t.” The words come out flat, final.
“But she used to?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest and immediately regretting it when his gaze drops to follow the movement. “Who is she, Osip?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see the internal struggle playing out behind his eyes. This man who radiates confidence in every situation, looks genuinely uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Anett is my ex,” he says finally, the words seeming to cost him something. “We broke up. She’s having trouble accepting that.”
“How long were you together?”
“A few months. It wasn’t serious.”
“Serious enough that she thinks she can storm into your garden and threaten your housekeeper.” I study his face, noting the way his jaw tightens at the reminder. “Serious enough that she has access to the property.”
“ Had access.” His voice carries an edge of steel that makes me shiver. “Security has been… updated.”
The implication hangs between us— that whatever access Anett once had has been permanently revoked. I should feel relieved, but instead I find myself wondering what other women have had keys to this fortress of a house.
“What about Galina?”
The question stops him cold. Every muscle in his powerful frame goes rigid, and something raw and devastating flickers behind his carefully constructed mask. The change is so dramatic it’s like watching a different person emerge— one carrying wounds that haven’t begun to heal.
“What about her?” His voice is suddenly hoarse.
“The pregnant woman in the photograph beside your bed.” I force myself to hold his gaze even though the pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Where is she now?”
The silence stretches so long I start to think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is hollow, scraped raw.
“They’re gone.”
I pull in a sharp breath. “You mean…?”
I can’t finish the sentence because the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. There’s a world of pain there, grief so profound it seems to have carved permanent shadows beneath those sharp cheekbones.
Oh my God.
Galina is dead.
And so is their baby.
“Oh God, Osip.” The words escape as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, just stands there like a statue carved from marble and pain. But I can see the cracks in his armor now, the places where loss has worn him down to something almost human.
Without thinking, I reach for him. My fingers find his hand, larger and warmer than mine, scarred in places that tell of violence I don’t want to imagine. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move closer either. Just lets me hold onto him like an anchor in whatever storm is raging inside his head.
“That’s why you want a baby,” I say quietly, understanding flooding through me. “You’re trying to replace what you lost.”
“ Da .” The admission is soft, broken.
My heart breaks for him. For the man who carries this kind of grief like a stone in his chest, who’s so desperate for family that he’d make business arrangements with strangers rather than risk his heart again.
I step closer, bringing our joined hands up to rest against my chest. “Osip, look at me.”
When those gray eyes finally meet mine, I see past the careful control to the raw wound underneath. This isn’t just about wanting a child— it’s about redemption, about building something clean from the ashes of whatever destroyed his previous attempt at family.
“I’m not her,” I tell him gently. “I can’t replace what you lost.”
“I know.” His voice is rough, honest. “I don’t want you to be her.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications that go far beyond surrogacy contracts and business arrangements. He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him wrestling with words he doesn’t know how to voice.
“I want…” He stops, jaw working as he fights some internal battle. “I want to try again. To build something that lasts. Something clean.”
The honesty in his voice breaks something open in my chest. This man who projects such control, such calculated power, is asking for something as simple and impossible as hope.
Without conscious thought, I rise up on my toes and press my lips to his— soft, gentle, nothing like the passionate claiming from before. This kiss tastes like comfort and promise, like understanding that doesn’t require words.
He responds immediately, his free hand coming up to cup my face with surprising tenderness. When we break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“The contract can wait,” I whisper against his lips.
“Can it?” There’s hunger in his voice now, desire that has nothing to do with business arrangements and everything to do with this insane attraction between us.
“Tomorrow,” I tell him, meaning it. “Tonight, just be here with me.”
Something shifts in his expression— relief mixed with want so intense it makes my knees weak. When he kisses me again, it’s with the desperation of a man who’s been drowning and just found air.
And I kiss him back like I might be the one to save him.