Chapter 1

Three years ago, I signed a contract to carry Roman Castellano's heir — in exchange, he'd pay for my dying mother's surgery.

I gave him a son. He gave the credit to his mistress.

Now, on the night he's throwing me out, his lawyer just handed me the papers that prove I own everything he has.

The champagne glass shattered against the Italian marble floor of the Castellano penthouse.

I didn't flinch. I had stopped flinching around Roman six months ago, when I realized that fear was a currency I could no longer afford to spend.

"You will sign the termination papers tonight," Roman said. He stood by the fireplace, tall, sculpted, his jaw a blade of aristocratic arrogance. His black suit probably cost more than every piece of clothing I had ever owned combined. "Your services are no longer required."

Services.

That's what he called three years of marriage. Three years of carrying his child, nursing his son, managing his household, and sleeping alone in the east wing while his mistress, Vivienne, occupied the master bedroom.

Services.

"And Luca?" I asked. My voice was steady. My hands were not.

"Luca stays with me." Roman didn't even blink. "Vivienne will raise him. She's better suited."

The air left my lungs.

Luca. My son. The baby I had carried for nine months, who had broken my ribs with his kicks, who I had delivered in a pool of my own blood after twenty-six hours of labor.

The baby Roman had never once thanked me for.

"Vivienne," I repeated, "cannot raise a child. She can barely raise her blood alcohol level past breakfast."

Roman's eyes went cold. Arctic. He crossed the room in three strides and gripped my chin, forcing my face up.

"You are a surrogate, Isla. A vessel. The contract states clearly: upon delivery of a healthy male heir, your role is complete. Vivienne is my chosen partner. She will be Luca's mother in every way that matters."

His fingers were bruising my jaw. I could smell his cologne — sandalwood and power. Underneath it, the faint, sweet scent of Vivienne's perfume clung to his collar.

He had come to discard me straight from her bed.

"The contract also states," I said through clenched teeth, "that I receive five million dollars upon termination."

Roman released my chin. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a check.

Five million. My freedom, reduced to a number on paper.

"Take it," he said. "And be gone by morning."

I looked at the check. I looked at the man I had foolishly allowed myself to love, despite every clause that told me not to.

"And if I refuse to leave without my son?"

Roman smiled. It was the cruelest expression I had ever seen on a human face.

"Then I will have you removed. And I will make sure you never see Luca again. I own the judges in this city, Isla. I own the courts. I own you — until I decide I don't."

He walked past me toward the door.

"Oh," he added, turning back. "Vivienne is hosting a dinner tomorrow for the Castellano board. She will be formally introduced as my wife and Luca's mother. You will not be mentioned."

The door clicked shut.

I stood in the silence of the penthouse, holding a check for five million dollars and the ruins of my dignity.

Then my phone buzzed.

An encrypted message. From a number I hadn't seen in three years.

Isla. Your grandfather is dead. You are the sole heir to the Marchetti fortune. Come home. — Attorney Enzo Marchetti, Milan.

I read it three times.

The Marchetti fortune.

The rival dynasty that had been locked in a corporate war with the Castellanos for forty years.

The empire worth sixty-three billion dollars.

My hands stopped shaking.

I picked up Roman's check, folded it neatly, and tucked it into my bra.

Not because I needed the money.

Because I wanted a souvenir of the night my husband made the worst mistake of his life.