Page 58 of Nine Months to Bear

“Not me,” I say. Then I remember what we did in his office. “Well, not again.”

“Yes again! Again, again!” Camille claps like an excited seal. “Use that bodacious billionaire body however he’ll let you! God knows the rest of us are living vicariously through you.”

A traitorous ache throbs between my thighs at the thought of “again.”Againwas so tangible earlier. We were so disgustingly close toagain.

I shake my head to clear the horny cobwebs away. “I don’t have the time to think about that. We’re hemorrhaging money, Cam. Clock’s ticking.”

Camille sighs, her enthusiasm dimming. “Only because Walsh is upgrading everything with her sugar daddy funds. Or daddies,plural. She wouldn’t be able to afford the technology upgrades if she wasn’t spreading her legs for some creepy billionaire and/or billionaires who?—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt. “We’re better than that.”

The hypocrisy hurts too much. My hands were just all over a different billionaire, weren’t they? Even if it was just to check his injuries.

But there’s a difference. There has to be. For the sake of my soul and my dignity, there has to be.

We’re better than that.

Camille doesn’t argue, but her expression says everything.

Are we, though?

25

OLIVIA

I squint at paragraph twenty-seven, subsection C of the contract spread across my coffee table. The words are really blurring together. I blame the second glass of wine, though the third and fourth might also be somewhat responsible.

Also at fault is the ridiculous complexity of this stunt he’s pulling. The paternity clause Stefan insisted on is unnecessarily detailed. Like, it’s beyond ridiculous. DNA verification requirements, chain of custody protocols for samples, multiple testing facilities, yada yada, so on and so forth.

You’d think I was planning to clone him.

There’s an idea. If there were two of him, you could have one in front and one in?—

I swat the voice in my head far, far away.

My living room is too quiet. It’s impossible to focus in here. The soft ticking of my grandmother’s antique clock on the mantle only emphasizes how empty and lifeless it is.

I should have stayed at the office, but being there after hours always makes me feel like I’m turning into my mother. Seeing as how that’s a fate worse than death, I’ll deal with the silence.

Sighing, I refill my glass with the last dregs of the wine and try to remind myself why I’m doing this in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a sleazeball.

I’m not Dr. Walsh. I meant it when I told Camille that we’re better than her.

Rebecca Walsh seduced her way onto the hospital board, sleeping with key members to secure her contracts. She uses her body as currency.

That’s not what I’m doing. I’m in this arrangement with Stefan for my patients—the women who trust me with their deepest hopes. For Camille and the rest of my staff who depend on me for their livelihoods. For all the families we’ve yet to help create.

My agreement with Stefan is… okay, yeah, unconventional. That’s one not-unfair word for it.

But at its core, it’s about saving something worth saving.

Dr. Walsh only cares about saving herself.

Which is why I’m going to take his specimen cup when he delivers it, follow the procedure I’ve done countless times for others, and get this whole thing—pregnancy and creating human life, no big deal—over with as quickly as possible.

Then I’ll stop thinking about Stefan Safonov’s hands.

And his mouth.