Dirty Damage: Chapter 9

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 like I’m the 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 the gotcha moment 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.”

He doesn’t even blink. Like my refusal is just a minor speed bump on the road to getting exactly what he wants.

“You haven’t even read it yet.”

“I don’t need to.” I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of steel I can muster. “If the bottom line is that I’m expected to marry you and have your baby, then thanks but no thanks.”

He takes another sip of whiskey, maintaining scalding eye contact. “You strike me as a smart woman, Sutton. A deeply inappropriate woman, but a smart one all the same.”

I have half a mind to fling his whiskey at him. I imagine the expensive liquor dripping down his sharp jawline, soaking into his shirt until the material clings to his skin⁠—

A shiver zips down my spine, and I clear my throat to try to clear my head.

“Are you saying I’m stupid if I don’t accept your contract?”

He sets down his glass with precision. “Only if you turn it down without reading it first. That would make you stupid.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” I snap. “Or have your baby. Nothing in there will change that!”

“Don’t be so sure.”

I huff in frustration. “You’re so sure I’ll marry you, but why do you want to marry me?”

“If it helps, my interest in you isn’t at all romantic.” His lip curls like the word tastes bitter. “I don’t want a traditional marriage. What I’m proposing is a simple business arrangement.”

Every little girl’s dream—an arranged marriage.

Given my family’s long line of failures, I’ve never given much thought to the whole happily-ever-after of it all.

I mean, do I love the kids at the daycare center? Yes.

Would it be nice to have someone around to investigate the spooky noises in the dark? Sure would. I’m an independent woman; not a robot.

Would I like to fall asleep next to a big, chiseled body that is just the right amount of hairy and smells like⁠—

I breathe through my mouth to keep his woodsy scent from jumbling whatever good sense I have left.

“Business arrangements don’t include sex.”

“Once you’re pregnant with my child, you can decide to end the physical part of the contract if you wish.” He can’t seem to stop himself from smirking. “But I doubt you will.”

Of course. He’s seen me half-naked on more than one occasion. He probably thinks I’m just like the women plastered all over these walls: willing and available for him whenever he’d like.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

I hate how breathless I sound.

“Even if that was true, I don’t need to. I know me—that’s enough.”

Against my better judgment, my eyes flick down below his belt. Something tells me he is way more than “enough.”

Heat floods my face. My body betrays me, responding to the dark promise in his voice.

I’ve kept myself in lockdown since Drew, but I’m learning now that all it takes is one arrogant billionaire with bedroom eyes to coax my nether regions out of their self-inflicted hibernation.

“Why do you even want a baby?” I ask, trying to redirect. “You don’t really seem like the paternal type.”

But even as I say it, I remember him with Chloe. How his massive hands had been so gentle holding her tiny ones.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of freedom.” Something flickers behind his eyes. “Tradition and obligation demand that I take a wife and produce an heir. Which is where you come in.”

“‘Produce an heir.’ You make it sound so… clinical.”

He runs a long finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. “Business often is. Marriage can be, too… in my experience.”

I have a feeling I don’t want to know what his experience with marriage has been. Mine has been horrifying enough.

“Marriage shouldn’t be a business proposition, though,” I say for both of our sakes. “It should be about⁠—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘love.’”

“Well, it should be. About love.”

His eyes rake over me, lingering on places that make my skin burn. “I’m surprised. I didn’t take you for a romantic. Then again, maybe the princess dress should’ve tipped me off.”

“Believing a child should be brought into a happy home with two parents who love them doesn’t make me a romantic.”

Whatever part of me was a romantic was chewed up and spit out by my family’s curse. Why dream about something I’ll never have?

“Why do you think our child’s home won’t be happy? We’ll both be getting what we want, and I plan to be a good parent.” His voice drops an octave as he dips his chin. “Do you?”

The question pokes at a lifetime’s worth of old bruises. “Of course. If I had a child, I would love⁠—”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. We may not love each other, but we’ll love our child. It will be cared for and provided for. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

When he slid that contract over to me, I was certain.

My decision was easy, my mind unwavering.

But now…

When did this conversation slip away from me?

When did his insane proposition start making a twisted kind of sense?

My problems aren’t because my parents didn’t get along; it’s because they abandoned me. Because Syd and I were left to navigate the world on our own.

Maybe if my parents had gone into the whole arrangement with the understanding they wouldn’t stay together…

Maybe things could’ve been better.

His eyes lock onto mine like heat-seeking missiles. “Have I misjudged you, Sutton?” The way he says my name should be illegal. “Are you one of those sad, lost causes who still believe in fairytales?”

My palms are sweaty. My chest aches with how fast my heart is racing. “You think I’m the one obsessed with fairytales, but people call you the Beast.”

“I’m aware,” he drawls. “And Chloe told me whenever you play princesses, you’re always Belle.”

What a pair we make.

I lift my chin. “That was a game. I’m no Belle. I’m certainly no princess.”

“I believe you.” He smiles. “That dress didn’t quite fit.”

“I’m no princess,” I repeat, “but are you really a beast?”

His answering eyebrow raise is not a denial. “Depends on who you ask.”

My gaze dips down to the contract between us. The paper seems to pulse with dark possibility.

Maybe this is my chance.

The family I’ve always craved without the messy emotional baggage.

Motherhood without the inevitable heartbreak of “true love.”

He must sense my resolve weakening because he slides the contract toward me, then produces a crisp white slip of paper that he places beside it.

“A check.” My name is written in sharp, even handwriting in the center.

The number printed on the thick paper makes my vision blur.

I pick it up, counting the zeroes. Six of them. One million dollars. “What the hell is this?”

“Compensation.” He rolls the word around his mouth like fine wine. “If you agree to sign the contract, the money is yours, free and clear. Regardless of what happens after.”

I glance between him and the contract, pulse hammering. “What will happen after?”

His smile is all predator.

“That remains to be seen. The contract covers all the different possibilities. My intention is not to force or trap you, Sutton. If you agree to my terms, I intend on being more than fair.”

He takes the document and places it in my hands with deliberate care. “Take it. Have a lawyer look through it for your own protection. You have three days to get back to me with an answer.”

“Three days?”

I could mull this over for three lifetimes and still have no fucking idea what to do.

He smiles. The sight sends a flutter coursing through me. It settles between my legs.

“Three days. And if you decide you don’t want this, then you can walk away. No harm done.”

“Just like that?” I search his face for deception. “I can walk away and you’ll just… let me go?”

“Consider it a promise.”

I dig my nails into my thigh. If I’m dreaming, now would be the time to wake up. But the pain is sharp, real.

The weight of the contract in my hands is real, too.

This isn’t a dream.

This isn’t a joke.

This is a choice.

And I have three days to make it.