Novels by Jay

MIA POVThe darkness is extreme.I can’t see Angelo, can’t see my own hand in front of my face, but I can hear everything with terrifying clarity. The footsteps in the hallway. Multiple people. Moving with purpose toward my room.Angelo’s hand finds mine in the dark, grip iron-tight.“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers against my ear.My heart beats so loud I’m certain whoever’s out there can hear it. Who are these people? Why are they here? And why does Angelo sound more angry than afraid?The footsteps stop outside my door.The handle turns slowly.Angelo pulls me backward, navigating the pitch-black room like he can see. His other hand presses against my mouth gentle but firm silencing the scream building in my throat.The door opens.A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, across the empty bed where I was sitting thirty seconds ago.“She’s not here.” A man’s voice. Rough. Unfamiliar. “Check the bathroom.”We’re pressed against the wall beside my closet. Angelo’s body shields mine, one arm

MIA POVMy legs feel like water as I walk down the hallway to Angelo’s study.He knows. He has to know.Why else would he call me thirty seconds after I texted Austin? Why else would his voice through the intercom sound like a judge reading a death sentence?I should run. Grab my bag, leave the penthouse, disappear. But Mom needs the money. The treatment starts Friday. If I run now, she dies.So I keep walking.The study door is open. Angelo sits behind a massive desk made of dark wood, laptop open, glass of amber liquid in his hand. He doesn’t look up when I enter.“Close the door,” he says.I do. The click sounds final.“Sit.”There’s a leather chair across from his desk. I sink into it, hands clasped tight in my lap to hide the shaking.Angelo finally looks at me. Those gray eyes pin me in place like a butterfly to a board.“Are you afraid of me, Mia?”Yes. Terrified.“No,” I lied.His smile is slow and terrifying. “You should be.”My throat closes. This is it. He’s going to expose me, call secur

MIA POVAngelo Cross doesn’t look at me like other men do.He looks at me like he already knows every secret I’m hiding.His office is all glass and steel, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city like he owns it. Maybe he does. The man sitting across from me in a black suit that probably costs more than my car is worth billions. He’s handsome in a brutal way, sharp jaw, ice-gray eyes, dark hair perfectly styled. But it’s not his looks that make my skin prickle with warning.It’s the way he’s staring at my left ear.At the heart-shaped birthmark I’ve had since birth and never thought about twice.“Miss Lawrence.” His voice is smooth, controlled. “Tell me why you want to be a surrogate.”The standard answer sits on my tongue, the one I practiced with Sophie last night. Something about wanting to help families, about believing in the gift of life. Beautiful lies that sound noble.But something about those gray eyes tells me he’ll know if I lie.“I need the money,” I say instead. “My mother

I wake up in Angelo Cross’s bed, and I’m covered in blood.My hands are shaking as I lift them to the dim morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. Red. Dark red. Too much of it. It’s on my palms, under my fingernails, soaked into the white silk sheets beneath me.I’m six months pregnant. The baby, our baby kicks hard against my ribs like she knows something’s wrong.My shoulder throbs with pain that makes my vision blur. I touch it carefully and feel the rough edge of bandages wrapped tight around torn skin. A gunshot wound. Someone shot me.But I don’t remember how I got here.I don’t remember whose blood this is.The penthouse is silent except for the sound of my breathing too fast, too loud, panicked. Angelo’s side of the bed is empty but still warm. He was here recently. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill.Did he do this to me?No. That doesn’t feel right. Angelo’s many things cold, ruthless, dangerous but he wouldn’t hurt the baby. Our baby. Would he?My phone si