Page 30 of Dirty Damage

My heart threatens to crack my ribs. I turn the page and freeze.

“Wait… there’s been a mistake.”This has to be a mistake.“This is a prenuptial agreement.”

Instead of yanking the papers away in a panic and sliding me a new contract—thecorrectcontract—Oleg nods.

“You’ll find there’s an NDA, as well.”

I take a sip of water, but my throat is sandpaper. I keep my eyes on the contract, too nervous to look anywhere else. I read, understanding less and less with each word.

“But it’s— Whoever signs this has tomarryyou,” I choke out, reading and rereading the next condition to make sure I haven’t lost my mind. “A-and… have your baby.”

Oleg smiles. Not a smirk. Not a small hint of amusement in the twitch of his brows. Arealsmile.

“Precisely.”

9

SUTTON

My brain short-circuits, neurons misfiring as I try to process his words. The multi-million-dollar yacht rocks beneath my feet, but that’s not what’s making me dizzy.

“I thought you just wanted sex,” I blurt.

Apparently, my mouth has stopped checking in with my brain.

He leans across the bar, a shaft of late afternoon sun striking his face, highlighting the web of scars on his cheek. “Considering having a baby requires sex, you’re not completely wrong.”

There’s that amusement again. He just handed me a contract to carry his baby, but he’s laughing at me likeI’mthe crazy one here.

I grab the edge of the bar, the polished wood cool under my sweaty palms. “This has to be a joke. It’s insane.”

“It might be, but I assure you, it’s no joke.”

He pours himself two fingers of liquor—the strong, malty scent has me second guessing my earlier stance on alcohol. If any interview required alcohol, surely it’s this one.

But he doesn’t even offer. He probably doesn’t want to waste the good stuff on me until after I’ve signed his ridiculous contract.

Which will never happen.

Despite what he’s telling me, I refuse to believe this is real.

“Why on earth would you want me to have your baby?”

“You’re young and beautiful.” He responds quickly enough to reveal that he’s actually thought about this. His gold eyes pin me in place. “And I think you’d be up for the task.”

I stare back, searching for the punchline. For thegotchamoment when he’ll reveal this is all an elaborate form of revenge for my accidental nudes incident.

But his expression remains impassive, unreadable.

He plants his hands on the bar counter, muscles rippling beneath the crisp white dress that can barely contain all that raw power.

The nickname “Beast” suddenly makes perfect sense. It’s not just about his size or the scars; it’s about the unleashed violence in every line of his body.

But somehow, fear isn’t what’s making my pulse race.

I slide the contract back across the bar, ignoring how my fingers tremble.

“You’re wrong. I’m not up for it. Not by a long shot.”

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