Chapter 1: Twenty Million Reasons to Say Yes
Ava's POV
"Hey, boss, let me handle Suite 8 tonight," I purred, leaning over the bar counter just enough to let my low-cut top do the talking. My hips swayed as I flashed my manager that killer smile—the one that always got me extra tips from the high-rollers.
God, I was good at this game. Twenty-three, broke as a joke, and sick of scraping by in this shithole club, flashing fake grins at rich assholes who treated me like their personal toy.
The manager smirked, eyeing me up and down. "You sure, Ava? Those guys don't play nice."
I winked, grabbing the tray with the whiskey bottle and crystal glasses. "That's exactly why I want in. Watch me work my magic."
I was about to knock on Suite 8 when voices leaked through the half-open door. My hand froze mid-air.
"Twenty million bucks per kid? Frank, is Mrs. Marchetti really going through with this?"
My heart slammed to a stop. Twenty million? Per kid?
"Yeah," a gravelly voice replied—older, in charge. That had to be Frank. "As long as she's healthy and fertile. Post the listing tomorrow. Requirements: twenty-two to twenty-five, clean bill of health, no addictions, decent looks."
Holy shit. Holy shit.
My brain was already crunching the numbers. Twenty million for one. Forty for two. Sixty for three. I could finally bail on this dump—no more fake smiles for entitled pricks snapping their fingers like I was their servant.
The tray shook in my hands. This was it. My ticket out.
I knocked.
"Come in."
The door swung open to two guys. The first was middle-aged, graying at the temples, in a suit that screamed old money. Frank, no doubt—the family's right-hand man, from what I'd heard around the club. The second was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with a vibe that screamed trouble. Sharp eyes, like he was sizing up everything for weaknesses.
"Got your drink," I said, keeping my voice steady as I sauntered in, hips swaying just a touch. "But I... overheard what you said. About the gig. I want in."
Frank's gaze raked over me, cold and calculating. "You get what this means?"
"I do." I set the tray down, faking more confidence than I felt, but damn if I wasn't channeling every ounce of that seductive fire. "You need someone to pop out babies. You pay twenty mil each. I need cash. Sounds like a win-win to me."
The assistant in the corner shifted, his eyes boring into me like I was a puzzle he was solving.
"You're cool with carrying a stranger's kid for money?" Frank asked, his tone flat, but I caught the test in it.
"I'm cool with carrying anyone's kid for twenty million bucks," I fired back, tossing my hair over my shoulder with a smirk. "I don't need the fairy-tale crap—love, romance, whatever. I just need to stop scraping by in a roach motel, living check to check."
A hint of something flickered on Frank's face. Approval? Hard to tell.
"You'll need a full medical workup first," he said. "If you pass, we talk terms. Leave your info."
I nodded, already mentally spending the money. "You won't regret it."
As I turned to go, the assistant spoke up, his voice low and rough. "She's got guts. Stupid guts, but guts."
I didn't look back.
Two days later, my phone buzzed.
"Miss Thompson? Results are clean. Mrs. Marchetti wants to meet. Car picks you up at three."
The Marchetti estate was ridiculous. Not just rich—obscenely rich. The kind that made you feel like a speck. Massive iron gates, endless manicured lawns, a mansion that could swallow my whole neighborhood.
Frank met me at the door. "Mrs. Marchetti's in the sitting room. Be respectful. Answer straight."
The woman on the ivory sofa looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine—silver hair perfectly styled, designer outfit, and this aura of total control that made politicians look like amateurs.
"Sit." Not a request. An order.
I sat.
"I'm Sophia Marchetti." Her accent had a faint European lilt. "I need a healthy young woman to carry heirs for my family. Twenty million per child. You'll sign an NDA. No one finds out about this—ever. Break it, and you'll regret being born."
The threat should've rattled me. Instead, all I saw were dollar signs.
She eyed me like I was livestock at auction. "Good structure. Passable features. You'll do. Frank, show her to her room. She stays here starting tonight."
"Tonight?" It came out sharper than I meant. "I haven't even—"
"Frank, take her up. The master bedroom," she dismissed me with a wave.
The master bedroom was bigger than my whole apartment. King bed with silk sheets, huge windows overlooking the gardens, a bathroom with a tub that could fit a party. This was nuts. This was really happening.
I slipped into the nightgown they'd left—creamy, pricey, nothing like my usual faded tees. My hands shook as I climbed into bed.
Where was this so-called husband? Was I just supposed to wait here like some old-school bride?
Hours dragged on. I stared at the ceiling, mind racing. What had I signed up for? What kind of family drops millions on babies? Why the secrecy?
Around midnight, the door banged open.
I jolted upright, heart pounding. A tall, broad silhouette filled the doorway, moving with a predator's grace. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it aside, and that's when the smell hit—fresh blood, sharp and metallic.
"Jesus," I whispered, scrambling back against the headboard. "Who the hell are you?"
"Luca Marchetti." His voice was low, gravelly, like it could cut glass. "Your husband."
Husband. Right. Because this couldn't get any weirder.
"You're... bleeding," I stammered, the metallic tang thickening the air.
"Not mine." Flat, no emotion. "Go to sleep."
Not his. Oh God. Oh God.
"What kind of family is this?" It came out as a whisper.
He shifted closer in the dark, the mattress dipping under his weight. I couldn't make out his face—just the outline, the heat radiating off him, the scent of gunpowder and copper mixed with pricey cologne trying to cover it all. No warmth in that presence. Just cold danger.
"Shut up and sleep," he said.
He stripped down and slid in beside me. The bed creaked. He was close enough that I felt trapped, like prey next to a wolf.
I lay there, stiff as a board, barely breathing. This stranger, reeking of someone else's blood, was supposed to father my kids.
Twenty million. Forty. Sixty. I chanted it like a mantra.
But as his breathing evened out, one thought screamed in my head: What the hell have I done?
When I woke, he was gone. The sheets beside me were cold, like he'd vanished into thin air. Like I'd dreamed the whole nightmare.
Except for the faint, rusty stain on the pillow where his head had been.
