I find the contract in Marcus's desk drawer while looking for stamps. That's how casually my life implodes. Two weeks before I'm supposed to walk down the aisle in a dress that cost more than my first car, and I'm holding a legal document that says my fiancé has agreed to father a child with someone named Victoria Chen. A medical arrangement, the paperwork calls it. My hands shake as I read the terms. Artificial insemination. Financial compensation. Custody agreements. The child will carry the Whitmore name, secure Marcus's position as heir to his family's pharmaceutical empire. And I'm mentioned exactly once: "Party A agrees to maintain discretion from his current fiancée, Isla Brennan, until after the wedding ceremony is complete." Until after. Like I'm a problem to be managed. A box to check before he moves on to what really matters. I hear his key in the lock. My heart hammers against my ribs. "Isla?" Marcus calls out. "Why are you home early?" I walk out of his study holding the contract. He freezes in the entryway, his perfect face doing that thing where it goes completely blank. The same expression he uses in board meetings. "I can explain," he says. "Please do." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. He sets down his briefcase with careful precision. "It's a business arrangement. Victoria can't conceive naturally, and her family needs an heir to maintain their stake in the merger. It's purely clinical." "You signed this three months ago." "Yes." "Three months ago, you asked me to marry you." "Those things aren't mutually exclusive, Isla." He loosens his tie, like we're discussing dinner plans. "You're going to be my wife. This doesn't change that." "You're going to father another woman's child." "For strategic purposes. You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to marry into my family. This is how our world works." Our world. Like I'm already part of it. Like I've already signed away my right to feel betrayed. "The wedding is off," I say. His expression finally shifts. Annoyance flickers across his face. "Don't be dramatic. We can discuss this rationally." "I just did. We're done." I walk past him, grab my purse, and leave. My hands don't start shaking again until I'm in my car. I drive to my best friend Sophie's apartment and tell her everything. She opens a bottle of wine at three in the afternoon and lets me rage and cry and rage some more. "Post it," Sophie says suddenly. "What?" "Post about it. Not the details, but—make a joke. Take your power back." I'm drunk enough that it sounds like a good idea. I open my social media and type: "Wedding's off. Groom position now available. Requirements: basic human decency. Please submit applications below." I hit post before I can overthink it. My phone explodes with notifications within minutes. Comments, shares, messages from people I haven't talked to in years. And then, buried in the chaos, a text from a number I deleted two years ago but still recognize. "I saw your post. We should talk. —Damien" My blood turns to ice. Damien Ashford. My ex-fiancé from before Marcus. The man I ran from because loving him felt like standing too close to a fire. The man whose family makes the Whitmores look like amateurs. I stare at the message until Sophie leans over my shoulder. "Oh hell no," she says. "You are not texting him back." But my fingers are already moving. "There's nothing to talk about." His response comes immediately: "Yes, there is. Answer when I call." My phone rings three seconds later. Against every instinct I have, I answer. "Hello, Isla." His voice is exactly as I remember—dark, smooth, dangerous. "What do you want, Damien?" "To make you an offer."