Tatia clutched her clipboard to her chest, nerves buzzing. She wasn’t supposed to be here—not really. But the tuition bill that morning had made her stomach drop. Temporary. Clinical. No commitments. Good pay. That’s what she kept telling herself. Following the nurse’s directions, she whispered, “Room 3.” Distracted by the math playing in her head, she turned the wrong way. She didn’t knock. That was mistake number one. She opened the door. Mistake number two. And froze. The room was nothing like a clinic. Dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, black leather. And a man. He sat on the couch like he owned the room, one arm stretched lazily along the back, a crystal glass of amber liquid in the other. His black dress shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms marked with dark ink. He looked expensive. Dangerous. Slowly, he turned his head. Silver eyes landed on her. His mouth tilted slightly. “Well,” his voice was smooth. “You’re not the nurse.” Tatia opened her mouth. Nothing came out. He took another sip. “Unless the uniform changed.” Heat rushed to her face. “I’m sorry—I think I got the wrong room.” His eyes flicked to her clipboard. “Lost, little dove?” Her cheeks burned. “They told me Room 3.” He glanced at the door. “This is Room 4.” She stepped back. “Oh my god—I didn’t mean to interrupt—” He set the glass down. His gaze stayed on her. “You interrupted nothing important. Although now I’m curious.” Her stomach tightened. “What are you doing in a place like this?” “That’s… personal.” His eyebrow lifted. He didn't look annoyed; he smiled. Small. Dangerous. “You should go.” She nodded, turning to flee. “Little dove,” he called. She looked back. His expression was unreadable. “You always walk into strangers’ rooms?” Her face turned bright red. “No.” His smile deepened. “Good.” And she left. She never asked his name. Three weeks later. Dante Moretti did not tolerate mistakes. He expected control. He had visited the clinic, completed the process, signed paperwork, and left. Done. Clean. He never intended to know who the surrogate was. So when his private phone rang, he almost ignored it. He answered. “There’s been an incident,” the clinic director said. Dante stayed silent. “There was a mix-up,” the man continued nervously. “Your sample was assigned incorrectly.” Dante stared out the window. “Who?” Papers shuffled. “Her name is Tatia Tkhelidze. College student. Financial hardship. She’s approximately three weeks pregnant.” Everything went still. Tatia. The girl. Big eyes. Wrong room. Little dove. The only person who had walked into his space and walked out unaffected. Dante’s jaw tightened. He remembered thinking she looked too soft for places like this. Too nervous. And now their worlds had collided. He finally spoke. “Where is she?” The director hesitated. “We were preparing to contact her—” “No.” Dante picked up his jacket. His voice was calm. “You won’t. She’s mine now.”