TWO WEEKS LATER

The towering Volkov Group Headquarters.

At the very top floor, behind walls of glass and power, Damien Volkov sat in his CEO office, fingers moving rhythmically across a stack of freshly printed reports. There wasn’t an ounce of softness in his face. Cold. Impenetrable.

Silas Thorne stepped in quietly, holding a crisp folder. “Mr. Volkov, the screening results are in.”

“Just get to the point,” Damien said without lifting his eyes. His voice was clipped and mechanical—every second wasted on nonsense was a second lost in empire-building.

Silas opened the folder, hesitating only briefly. “The final candidate is Alessandra Rossi, nineteen years old, currently a sophomore at the Milan Conservatory of Performing Arts—”

“Alessandra?” Damien finally looked up, brows tightening just slightly. That name… it triggered something. A memory surfaced—her face, soaked in rain, desperate eyes full of fire as she banged on his car window outside the Ganymede Building just a week ago.

Silas caught the flicker in Damien’s usually unreadable expression and said quickly, “Yes, she’s the same girl who stopped us that night. She meets all the screening criteria. Looks, body type, fertility indicators. Everything checks out. I’ve also been keeping an eye on her background. After the death of her father, she and her mother were completely wiped out financially…”

Just as he was about to launch into the sordid details of the Rossi family collapse, Damien raised a hand—swift, sharp.

“Enough. Stick to what’s relevant. And keep everything confidential.” His gaze returned to the files without another glance toward Silas. “Get out.”

Silas stood frozen for half a second, then nodded and left quietly. --- 8:00 p.m. — somewhere in Milan

The alley wasn’t sketchy, but it was the kind of place you didn’t linger in heels. Alessandra stood stiffly at the corner, hands shaking around her purse strap, eyes darting every time headlights approached.

Today was supposed to be her father’s v8siting the earth day—the Italian equivalent of a memorial. She should’ve been home burning a candle, praying for his soul.

Instead, she was here. Standing on concrete, waiting for a stranger who was about to buy her womb.

Since her father’s suicide, everything had gone downhill like a cruel domino setup. Creditors bled them dry. Her mother—once strong and brilliant—slipped on a wet street while trying to borrow money and smashed her head on a curb. Skull fracture. ICU. Coma.

Their family home was repossessed. Every asset frozen. If not for Sofia Vale, her childhood best friend who took them in, they’d be sleeping under train station benches.

Alessandra tried everything. Even showed up at her boyfriend’s house but was met with slammed gates and silence. After chasing her like a madman for months, he ghosted her the moment her world collapsed.

Even worse was her uncle. One day after her father died, the man and his family vanished like cowards. No support. No calls. Nothing.

The hospital had already hinted—either she pay the treatment deposit, or they pull the plug.

She didn’t care what she had to do.

So when a private number called offering two million euros for surrogacy, with an extra hundred grand in early deposit?

She said yes before she even thought it through.

She passed all the medical exams. Got the call just this afternoon: She was fertile. Ovulation window wide open. Tonight was the night.

She just had to show up. Sign. And surrender.

A sleek black Panthero Nero pulled up, engine purring like a beast. The tinted window slid down.

“Get in,” said the driver. His voice was low, disguised behind a black surgical mask and baseball cap.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and climbed into the back seat.

He handed her a thin folder, pressed and crisp.

“Read and sign. One million will be wired immediately. The other million comes after the baby is delivered,” he said. “Also, as stipulated—this will be physiological conception.”

Alessandra’s hand paused over the first page.

Physiological?

Her heart sank. This wasn’t IVF. No labs. No test tubes.

She’d have to sleep with a stranger.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back hard. Per la mamma, she reminded herself. She had no choice. This was her only shot at saving her mother.

Her voice barely trembled. “Okay.”

She signed on the last page, her name etched like blood on parchment.

Silas nodded, satisfied. He took back the contract, tucked it into a lockbox under the seat, then pulled into a nearby underground parking structure.

They coasted to a stop.

He opened the glove box and pulled out a black silk blindfold.

Alessandra sat completely still. She didn’t need him to explain.

He walked around, opened the back door, and said in a quiet voice, “I'll need to blindfold you now.”

She gave him a short nod and closed her eyes.