Chapter 2

I opened the door.

Not because I was brave. Because if I didn't, he'd break it down. And I'd rather face the monster than explain to my landlord why my apartment had a monster-shaped hole.

Alexander Black stepped inside, dripping rain onto my secondhand rug, and his blue eyes never left my belly.

"You're pregnant," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I crossed my arms over my chest — over the tiny swell I'd been hiding under oversized sweaters for three weeks. "I'm bloated."

"From what? Twins?"

Close. Try triplets.

I kept my face blank. "From pasta. I eat my feelings. You should try it. Might help with the whole... you problem."

His jaw tightened. He was even more devastating up close — sharp cheekbones, dark lashes, a mouth that had kissed every inch of my body and then written me a check like I was a business expense.

That mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Eight weeks ago, you were a virgin."

My blood turned to ice.

"Don't."

"I didn't know then. I found out after." He pulled something from his inner jacket pocket — not a check this time. A folded piece of hotel letterhead. "The housekeeping staff found blood on the sheets. They reported it. Standard protocol."

I remembered the pain. The way he'd paused, confused, when I'd winced. The way he'd looked at me after — like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

Then he'd fallen asleep.

And I'd limped to the bathroom, cleaned myself up, and told myself it didn't mean anything.

"You left before I woke up," he continued, his voice quieter now. "You took my cufflink. And you left a note of your own."

He unfolded the paper.

My stomach dropped.

---

"You're not as cold as you pretend to be. I heard you whispering to me while I slept. You said, 'Stay.' So I stayed until morning. Your move, wolf boy."

I'd written that at 5 AM, sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. He looked younger without the frown. Almost human.

I'd meant it as a challenge.

Instead, he'd turned it into a weapon.

"You quoted me," I whispered.

"You intrigued me." He folded the note carefully, like it was evidence. "No one intrigues me, Isabella. No one makes me feel... anything. So I tracked my cufflink. I ran your face through every database I own. And I found out exactly who you are."

He stepped closer.

"The daughter of Marcus Vance. The man who tried to destroy my father. The man who faked his own death and left you with nothing."

I flinched.

He noticed.

"Your family is richer than mine," he continued, softer now. Crueler now. "But you're playing poor. Why? To find a man who loves you for you? To punish your father? Or just because you're addicted to suffering?"

"Get out."

"I'm not finished."

"I said get out."

He didn't move. Instead, he reached into his jacket again. This time, he pulled out a folded document — thick, legal, stamped with his company's gold seal.

"This is a contract," he said. "It says you'll move into my penthouse for the duration of your pregnancy. You'll submit to medical care by my doctors. You'll carry the child to term. And the moment the baby is born, you'll sign over all parental rights in exchange for ten million dollars."

I stared at the paper.

Then at him.

Then back at the paper.

"You're joking."

"I don't joke."

"You want to buy my baby?"

"I want what's mine." His voice was flat. Final. "You conceived my child. My blood. My heir. I don't know you, Isabella. I don't trust you. And I will not let a woman I met once raise the only family I have left."

The room spun.

I grabbed the edge of my kitchen counter to stay upright.

"There's just one problem," I said.

His eyes narrowed.

"You mentioned twins earlier." I placed my hand on my belly. Felt the three heartbeats I'd already memorized. "You're not even close."

---

His face didn't change.

But something behind his eyes — something raw and hungry — shifted.

"How many?" His voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough.

I didn't answer.

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. But firm. His thumb pressed against my pulse, feeling it race.

"Answer me, Isabella."

"Let go of me."

"Answer me, and I will."

I looked at his hand on my wrist. Then at his face — the cold mask cracking, the monster showing a flicker of fear.

Three heartbeats.

Three lives.

And a man who had no idea how to love any of them.

"Triplets," I w

hispered.

His hand dropped.

He stepped back.

And for the first time since I'd met him, Alexander Black said nothing at all.