My Surrogate Stole My Husband (Beg Me, Billionaire #1)

Chapter 1

Grace

The private elevator chimed, and I turned before the doors had even finished opening. Seven years of marriage, and that sound could still set off a flutter in my chest.

Adrian stepped into the foyer.

He didn’t just enter a room; he altered its gravity.

He brought the cold, electric energy of the corporate city in with him, a man so intensely focused that everything else naturally orbited around his presence.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it casually over the back of a pristine white armchair.

He looked exhausted—the kind of deep, structural exhaustion that came from managing billions of dollars and a board of ruthless directors—but the moment his dark eyes locked onto mine, the tension in his shoulders seemed to fractionally release.

He didn’t move toward me immediately. He stood in the foyer, loosening his silk tie with one hand, his gaze sweeping over the dark waves I'd left loose down my back the way he liked and the cream silk dress that fit closer now than the day I'd bought it.

The hormone rounds had left me softer, a few extra pounds I was still making peace with, and Adrian looked at every one of them the way he looked at everything he owned and prized. Then he took in the lit candles on the dining table and the immaculate plating in the kitchen.

“You’re standing too far away,” he murmured, his voice a low, resonant hum that still, after seven years, sent a warm shiver straight down my spine.

I smiled, crossing my arms over my chest. “You just walked in.”

“And you cooked,” he noted, finally closing the distance between us in a few long, deliberate strides.

He stopped inches from me, the scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne.

A faint, disapproving line appeared between his brows.

“I told you to let the staff handle it tonight, Grace. You should be resting.”

These days, Adrian always thought I should be resting. Three years of hormone injections and negative pregnancy tests had taken their toll on both of us. Adrian had never once let go of my hand through any of it.

“I’m fine, Adrian,” I said, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his tailored suit jacket. “I wanted to do this for us. It’s seven years. I wanted it to be just you and me.”

Adrian didn’t ask about my day. He didn’t offer a platitude about traffic or the board meeting. He simply reached out, taking my face in both of his large hands. His thumbs gently traced my cheekbones, his dark eyes holding my green ones for a long moment before his gaze dropped to my mouth.

His expression softened, an almost imperceptible melting of his usual rigid control.

“Just you and me,” he echoed.

I frowned slightly, catching a strange, hollow weight to his tone. It was a fleeting shadow in his eyes, something heavy and heavily guarded, but before I could try to decipher it, he leaned down.

“ Grace,” he whispered against my lips, right before he kissed me. He always said my name against my lips before he kissed me deeply. My name first, then the kiss. Always in that order.

His mouth was demanding, his grip on my jaw firm and fiercely possessive.

It was the way Adrian loved—as if he was staking a physical claim, reminding himself and me that I belonged to him, safe inside the fortress he had built for us.

I leaned into him, letting my hands slide up into his dark hair, answering the kiss with my own desperate relief.

I had given up my dream of Paris for this man.

I had traded my vibrant dream for the polished, curated reality of being Mrs. Adrian Wright.

And when he kissed me like this, anchoring me against the storm, I never regretted a single second of it.

“Happy anniversary,” I breathed against his lips as he pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes, usually a flat, calculating obsidian in the boardroom, were dark and liquid with heat.

I pulled him toward the dining room, sitting him down at the head of the long mahogany table. I poured the wine and we ate.

For the first half hour, it was perfect.

The short ribs practically melted on the fork.

We talked about his brother Nolan’s new promotion to Vice Chairman, dissecting the political maneuvering it required.

We talked about Esme, his teenaged sister, who was coming home from boarding school at the end of the term.

“She wants to paint the nursery,” I told him, taking a sip of my cider. “She sent me a dozen swatches of sage green today. It works for a boy or a girl, and she’s convinced the baby needs a ‘calming botanical environment.’”

Adrian smiled, but the shadow I had seen earlier flickered back across his face. He swirled the red wine in his crystal glass, staring into the dark liquid for a second too long. “Sage green is fine with me. Whatever you want, Grace.”

“Adrian,” I said gently, setting my glass down. “Are you all right? You seem...distracted.”

He looked up, the corporate mask sliding effortlessly back into place. “It’s just my father,” he said smoothly. “He’s pushing the board for an earlier retirement date. It’s creating a lot of friction with Nolan.”

I nodded, accepting the explanation. The succession battle for Wright Capital was a constant, low-level hum of anxiety in our lives. It made sense that it was weighing on him.

Before I could ask him about Nolan’s exact position, the intercom buzzed.

The sharp, abrasive noise shattered the quiet, curated intimacy of the room. Adrian’s jaw clenched instantly, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

“Who the hell is that?” he ground out, glaring at the intercom panel on the wall.

“The doorman, probably. Maybe a package?” I stood up, wiping my mouth with my linen napkin, and walked over to the panel. I pressed the silver button. “Yes, Thomas?”

“Mrs. Wright, I’m so sorry to interrupt your evening,” the doorman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Miss Dubois is here. She says it’s quite important.”

Celine.

I blinked in surprise, my hand hovering over the button. Celine knew it was our anniversary. I had mentioned it to her twice during our last lunch. It wasn’t like her to show up unannounced.

“Oh,” I said, glancing back at Adrian over my shoulder.

His face had gone blank. It was a terrifyingly neutral mask, the absolute stillness of a predator waiting for a strike.

“Send her up, Thomas,” I said to the intercom.

“Grace, tell him no,” Adrian said sharply, his chair scraping against the hardwood as he half-rose from the table. “Tell him to send her away. It’s our anniversary.”

“Adrian, she wouldn’t come all the way down here unless something was wrong,” I argued gently, already stepping away from the panel to head for the foyer.

“What if something’s wrong with the baby?

” Celine was our surrogate, and more than anything I felt grateful to her.

She was giving me—us—something we had dreamed about before we ever said I do.

A chance to be more than a couple. A chance to be a family.

My question stopped him cold. He froze, his knuckles turning white where he gripped the edge of the mahogany table. He didn’t argue further. He slowly lowered himself back into his seat, his entire body rigid with tension.

A minute later, the private elevator chimed again.

Celine stepped out.

She looked impossibly small and delicate in the grand, sweeping foyer.

She had a heart-shaped face, big, innocent blue eyes, and long, honey-blonde hair that always seemed effortlessly tousled.

She was wearing a soft pink dress that clung to the slight, beautiful swell of her six-month pregnant belly.

She stepped off the elevator slowly, her eyes sweeping over the expensive art on the walls, lingering on the crystal chandelier above the dining table even though she’d been to our penthouse more than once.

There was a subtle hunger in her gaze, a deep appreciation for the luxury that she tried to mask with a breathless, apologetic smile.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. She looked flushed, a little out of breath. “I know it’s your anniversary. I know I shouldn’t be here.”

“Celine, it’s fine,” I said quickly, crossing the room to take her hands. They were freezing cold. “Is everything okay? Are you feeling all right? Is the baby—”

“The baby is fine,” she said, her voice dropping into a light, breathy laugh. She squeezed my hands, but her attention wasn’t on me. She was looking past my shoulder, directly at Adrian, who was still sitting at the dining table.

I felt a strange prickle of unease at the back of my neck. Adrian was practically vibrating with suppressed rage, staring at Celine with an intensity that felt dangerous.

“Hi, Adrian,” Celine said softly. “I’m so sorry to intrude.”

Adrian didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink.

“If the baby is fine, Celine, why are you here?” I asked, gently pulling her attention back to me and guiding her into the living room.

“I was just out running errands,” she explained breezily, dropping her designer tote bag—a gift from me last month—onto the cream sofa.

“I was over on the Upper East Side, near that boutique ultrasound clinic we talked about. And I just...I had a whim. I walked in and got a 3D ultrasound. I just couldn’t wait until the OB appointment tomorrow. I had to see him!”

My heart leaped into my throat, instantly forgetting the strange tension in the room. “You got a 3D ultrasound? You didn’t find out the sex, did you?” We had planned a grand gender reveal on the weekend, and both Adrian and I had agreed we wanted to be surprised. Adrian knew this.

“I did,” Celine said, her eyes shining brightly as she reached into her bag. “I mean, I did get the ultrasound,” she corrected. “I didn’t find out the sex, but I just know in my bones that it’s a boy. Mm—intuition, I guess.”

She hadn’t said “mother’s intuition,” but it felt like she stumbled over it.