Nobela ni Yamini Celestial

RenaI tightened my grip on my worn leather bag, my knuckles whitening as his outrageous words echoed in my ears. Did I hear him right?“You’re insane,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. My eyes narrowed on the tall, maddeningly composed man standing in front of me. “I don’t even know you.”He shrugged like my reaction was just a minor inconvenience. “For now,” he said casually. “But that’s hardly an insurmountable problem.”I blinked, completely thrown. “You can’t just go around asking strangers to be your surrogate,” I hissed, casting a quick glance over my shoulder. The street was quiet, but the thought of anyone overhearing this absurd conversation sent a flush of embarrassment crawling up my neck.“Of course not,” he replied smoothly, as though he were discussing the weather. “There are steps—further discussions, genetic testing, terms to negotiate—”“No,” I cut him off, taking a step back. “I’m not negotiating anything with you. I don’t even know your name!”“Ah.” He til

ArmaniHer eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating as she said, “Prove it.”I blinked, caught off guard. “Prove what?” My voice was steady, but I genuinely didn’t know what she was asking for.“The money,” she said, her gaze flicking down toward my midsection. For a brief moment, I thought she was checking me out, but no—she was expecting to see a bulging wallet or something. Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Prove it.”I felt a smile tug at the corners of my lips. Interesting. She wasn’t going to make this easy. Fair enough. I gave her a slight nod and reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled out my wallet. It was sleek, black leather—understated but unmistakably expensive. I counted out twenty crisp bills and nodded toward the booth she’d just vacated. “Shall we?” I asked, gesturing politely.I wasn’t convinced this would lead anywhere. Honestly, the whole situation felt surreal. After years of searching for the right woman, was it possible she’d just wa

RenaI dropped my phone onto the table with a dull thud, the sound barely audible over the low hum of chatter in the diner. My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen, my mind spinning with the weight of the phone call. A million dollars. It felt like some cruel punchline to a joke I didn’t understand. My stomach twisted as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my breathing. Crying wasn’t an option. Not here, not now. I forced the tears back, even as they threatened to spill over.The fries in front of me sat untouched, the once-crispy edges now soft and limp. Normally, fries were my go-to comfort food, a reliable remedy for bad days. But today, they tasted like ashes in my mouth. Even my milkshake—a creamy orange Creamsicle blend—had lost its usual appeal, the condensation forming lazy trails down the glass. My finger traced absent patterns in the moisture ring on the table, but my thoughts were a million miles away.Where the hell was I supposed to find a million dollars? My

Armani leaned back in his chair, looking out the window as the smell of fried fish filled the small restaurant. He was in Seattle, a place he’d only visited once before for a fancy party years ago. That event hadn’t left much of an impression, but this trip was different. It was important.The fish on his plate was crispy and fresh, just like Benedict had promised. Benedict always said it was the best in the world, and maybe he was right. But Armani barely tasted it. The uncomfortable chair and cheap table didn’t bother him as much as the thoughts running through his head.Armani del Rossi was no ordinary man. He ruled his world from the shadows, the name “Del Rossi” whispered with fear and reverence across continents. He was a mafia lord—a ruthless, calculating figure who commanded loyalty through power and fear. Possession was his creed. Control was his doctrine. And anything he wanted, he took.Recently, his mind had been elsewhere. Benedict had a daughter, and even Xavier—of all p