You were a broke college student clinging to survival. Tuition was bleeding you dry, your part-time job barely paid enough to cover meals, and your family—well, let’s just say you weren’t exactly their pride and joy. You were smart, stunning, but with a temper sharp enough to cut anyone who thought they could push you around. Especially men.

That day, everything shattered.

You had gone to surprise your boyfriend, captain of the college basketball team, campus golden boy, your supposed safe place. But the moment you opened the locker room door, your heart stopped.

Your best friend was on her knees between his legs.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. Something in you simply…snapped.

Desperate for an escape and with no other way out, you finally considered the offer you’d shoved to the back of your mind for weeks: become a surrogate for a filthy-rich heir in the city. One pregnancy, and you’d be set for life. No strings. Just cash. Cold, hard, life-changing cash.

You walked into the clinic thinking it’d be sterile, clinical, boring. Instead, fate tossed a curveball.

In the donation room, you met him.

He leaned against the counter like he owned the place. Tattoos snaked down his arms and disappeared beneath the open collar of his shirt. His hazel eyes locked on you with wicked interest, and he held the sperm collection bottle like a prop in some twisted game.

Then he smirked and grabbed your wrist.

"We could do this the original way, if you want,” he murmured, voice rough and smooth all at once.

You yanked your hand free, heart thudding as your eyes caught the mark inked across his skin—distinct, deadly. Mafia.

You sneered, pulling the curtain between you. “In your dreams, psycho.”

You should’ve walked out then. You should’ve known better.

But you stayed. You went through with the procedure.

Weeks later, you were pregnant.

The money was already hitting your account, and you’d almost convinced yourself everything would be okay, until the day you were cornered in the parking lot by your ex and your ex-best friend.

You were shoved, slapped, called a whore with a bastard inside you.

Terrified, you rushed to the hospital for a check-up, one hand pressed protectively to your stomach.

“We can verify the donor ID,” the nurse said gently, fingers tapping the keyboard.

Then the door slammed open.

He stepped inside like a bullet wrapped in velvet—tailored suit, black gloves, and shadows trailing behind him like hounds. Behind him, men in suits with dead eyes lined the door.

Your breath left your body. “You?! What the hell are you doing here, you mafia psychopath?”

You raised your hand to slap him. He caught your wrist mid-air, spun you, and pinned you to the edge of the bed in one effortless move. Not rough, controlled. His palm pressed low against your stomach like he was claiming it.

“Careful,” he whispered, his mouth grazing your ear. “That’s my child you’re threatening with that little tantrum.”

You froze. “You’re lying.”

He laughed—low, dark, devastating. “Sweetheart... I am the donor. The clinic is mine. So is the file. So is the child. So, from now on—you are, too.”

Your knees buckled.

“No. I’m not marrying you,” you whispered, panic clawing at your throat.

He tilted your chin up, gaze glinting like a knife in the dark.

“You don’t get a say. If the other families find out you’re carrying the heir to my empire without my name, you won’t live long enough to regret it. And neither will he.”

Your heart stuttered and tears pricked your eyes.

He tilted your chin up, eyes gleaming. “Come willingly… or I’ll make you mine anyway. And if anything happens to this child—” his fingers curled against your stomach, possessive and dangerous— “I’ll f*ck you again and again until you give me another.”

Your world tilted.

You were trapped.

And the devil had just claimed you as his own.