5

The most ironic thing about all of this? Fate has me knocked up with Dmitri Egorov’s baby and we skipped right over what would have been the fun part. Which is what I’m sure would have been hot, sweaty, passionate sex. The kind of sex that involved his teeth marks on parts of my body. My claw marks on parts of his.

I meet that severe scowl of his with an unblinking gaze of my own. “Yeah, well, ditto.”

In Egorov Industries, he’s my boss and I’m his subordinate. But right here, right now? We’re on equal footing. I’m not about to let him intimidate or manipulate me into letting him have all the control.

I guess coparenting has already begun.

I want to vomit at the sheer thought of it.

His lips press together in a hard line and he glances at his Patek Philippe as though this meeting has been a gigantic waste of his time.

“So we find ourselves at an impasse.”

I shrug. “Guess so.”

“First thing’s first: we need to make sure.”

Frowning, I start tapping at the table with my nails just like Dmitri was doing a moment ago. “Sure of what? Dr. Saeder confirmed it this morning.”

Dmitri’s lower lip curls with contempt. “You mean the same inept, ancient reptile who mixed up our samples? Forgive me if I’d prefer a second opinion.”

I bite back a laugh. “Point taken. It’s just that they ran several tests⁠—”

“The tests wouldn’t be for you; they would be to prove paternity. I need to make sure the child you’re carrying is actually mine.”

Mine. It’s weird enough when I say it; it’s ten times weirder when he does.

There’s a whole lot of possessiveness there already. I can feel it skittering along my spine and, weirdly enough, it doesn’t feel totally paternal. Nor is it affectionate. More like… business-minded. Like we’re discussing his intellectual property, not his possible child.

I suppose that’s the last hope I can cling to. If it turns out he’s not the father, then I can continue with this pregnancy without the burden of an arrogant, demanding, billionaire baby daddy strapped to my hip for the next eighteen years.

If it turns out he is the father… well, then surely that entitles me to a few extra months of maternity leave, right?

The waitress comes back with our drinks. My Coke on the rocks is offered without so much as a glance in my direction. But Dmitri’s vodka is set down with a smile that makes me want to roll my eyes until they never come back down.

“There you go, sir. Anything else I can get you?”

Those silver eyes slide to me. “Are you hungry, Wren?”

“N-no,” I stutter out of pure panic. I was mentally prepared for drinks with a stranger, not a whole meal with my boss. My survival instincts have already kicked into flight mode. Run far away and never return, they’re screaming. I just want to get back home to solidify my butt imprint on the sofa and finish up the half-eaten tub of Häagen-Dazs that’s calling out to me from the freezer.

I might have to take it easy on the fancy ice cream now that I’m with child, though. Babies are expensive.

“I’m good,” I add so as not to be rude. Then, reluctantly, “… Thanks.”

His face ripples with what I can only assume is relief. I try not to take that personally. Just because he handles curveballs with an immaculate poker face doesn’t mean he isn’t just as worried and uncomfortable as I am.

“This is why you seemed off this morning.” There it is again: that softness in his face, same as I saw earlier today.

Just like then, it makes me terrifyingly uncomfortable.

My stomach twists. “Yes… I had just found out.”

For a moment, I consider telling him about everything that brought us here. About how this pregnancy was never meant to be about me. It was all for them: the last two people in the world that I could call family.

But I clamp my mouth shut at the final moment and reach for my Coke instead. There’s no point in sharing the personal shitshow that is my life with Dmitri Egorov.

For one, he definitely doesn’t care.

For another, he’s still my boss.

And whichever way this paternity result goes, I need to keep this job.

“Hand me your phone,” Dmitri commands abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m giving you my personal number. If anything comes up—and I mean anything at all—you call me.”

“Um, I thought you wanted a paternity test first?” I say, blinking stupidly. “We don’t know if the baby is yours yet.”

He lets out a little sigh that has my nether regions tingling. “Until we do, I’m working under the assumption that it’s mine. And I always take care of what is mine.”

Mine. What a word. It morphs into something more and more terrifying every time one of us says it.

That tingle spreads slowly until it blankets all of me and sinks lower, lower, lower. It’s a dangerous feeling. But what’s even more dangerous is the thought that comes with it. As I stare at this infuriating, gorgeous, bossy, protective, rich, arrogant, too-full-of-contradictions-to-be-summed-up-in-one-adjective man, all my mind can conjure up is…

As far as baby daddies go, I could have done a lot worse.

4

DMITRI

“Mr. Egorov.”

My mood is bad enough as it is. Seeing this human tracking device lurking in the foyer of my penthouse does not help at all.

“Dante,” I spit at him. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I brought over some Italian spices for Miss Zanetti, courtesy of Don Zanetti.”

My Italian has improved over the years, but Don Vittorio Zanetti speaks his own kind of language. “Italian spices” is code. Translation: I’ve been sent to check on the Italian princess to make sure this living arrangement sticks.

I drop my coat into the vanishing cupboard and stride past Dante, who has the gall to follow me into the main living room without invitation. This is the second time this week he’s stopped by. I’ have enough spices to last me a fucking lifetime.

“Beatrice!” I call out.

Bee twirls into the living room from the arched doorway on the right. She’s wearing a slinky silver bathrobe cinched at the waist. “Baby! I thought that was you.”

She gallivants into my arms, ignoring Dante, who stands off to the side, blending in with the furniture. She drops a peck on my cheek and slides her hands over my chest. “Hm, I love when you come back home smelling of sweat and money.”

Usually, I’m better at playing along with her little charade. But today, my head is throbbing and my patience is wearing thin.

I twist her around and point with my chin. “Your father’s lapdog is here.”

She laughs. “Yes, I know. I’ve already thanked him for the spices, and yet he hasn’t left. The only reason I can think of for why he’s still here is to see you, my love. I think he likes you more than me.”

“That would be a first.” Dragging my eyes up to face the pale, scrawny man in front of me, I ask, “Well? Do you have anything to say to me, Dante?”

Those dispassionate, watery blue eyes of his betray nothing, but his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “As I said, I only wanted to bring you Don Zanetti’s regards, Mr. Egorov.”

Bee tilts her head to the side and coos at Dante like he’s a baby. “Aw, how sweet. See, Dmitri? Daddy likes you, too.”