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He takes another drink, not bothering to reply.

I raise my chin, attempting to show some strength. “While I do that, you need to get my phone from my car.”

Leaning back, he pulls my phone from his pocket. The furry pink case looks almost comical in his hand.

“Since you have my phone, I hope it means you have my car as well?” My tone is stupidly hopeful.

“You have your phone,” he says, but it fully answers my question.

“Why not my car?”

“Your car has GPS on it. I don’t want it tracked to my house.”

“I need a car, Julian.”

He hands me my phone, done with the car conversation. I immediately unlock it and go straight to my Contacts.

Only to find half of them gone.

“What the hell?” I show him the screen. “Did you go through my phone, you lunatic?”

He runs his hand over his jaw stubble. “I did.”

“That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Why would you do that?” I scroll through the Contacts he kept.

There aren’t many, but he did conveniently keep my OB-GYN in there.

“I needed to know what you were doing. Keep an eye on my purchase.”

I decide to ignore the wholepurchasecomment and focus more on him going through my phone like some jealous boyfriend. “You can’t just delete my Contacts.”

He scoots in closer, his face and voice hardening. “I deleted themenin your Contacts. Men you should have no interest in communicating with.” He holds a finger to my lips when I attempt to talk. “And since I prefer not to have this tedious conversation again, every man you met on that dating app of yours now knows you’re pregnant with my baby and to never contact you again. I do business with the CEO of that app. You’re banned from ever opening another account.”

“What gives you the right?” I hiss through my teeth, using all my restraint not to throw my phone at him.

“Everything gives me the right.A milliondollars gives me the right.”

“I haven’t signed anything.” I’m so ready to rip that stupid contract to shreds. “You don’t—and won’t—control my life.”

As if he can read my mind, he grabs the contract and moves it out of my reach. “Don’t like my term? You’re free to leave,” he says nonchalantly, as if he can take it or leave it.

I mean, he really can.

He’s not the one who’ll be stuck marrying Dima.

He scrubs his hands together, ready to drive his argument in my face more. “As of right now, I’m only out half a million dollars, and I’ll easily still sleep at night. As will you—next to Dima, of course.” He lowers his hand to my thigh. “Consider what you’re doing a surrogacy, if that makes you feel better. But let me make it clear—you won’t find another man willing to give up that amount of money in exchange for pussy, no matter how sweet or wet it might be.”

I cringe at his crassness. “Don’t say it like that. You’re asking for my uterus, not my pussy.”

Saying it that way doesn’t make me feel as cheap. I’m sure they sell uteri on the market for a pretty penny.

Big chance of themnotbeing in someone’s body though.

“Semantics,” he argues.