Chapter 2 - Three Nights of Fire
The first night was a battle of wills.
Dominic did not touch her. He slept on the chaise lounge in his master suite, leaving Bianca the sprawling king-sized bed. But the tension in the room was thick enough to suffocate. They talked. To Bianca’s shock, Dominic wanted to know about her strategies, her code, her formulas for shipping routes. For hours, they spoke as equals, their minds clashing and aligning in perfect harmony.
The second night, the barrier broke.
A sudden storm rolled over the Hudson, rattling the panoramic windows. When a crack of lightning illuminated the room, Bianca saw Dominic standing by the window, his bare back covered in map-like scars—remnants of a life lived on the edge of death.
Driven by an inexplicable urge, Bianca walked to him. When she touched his shoulder, he flinched, turning to face her. The raw vulnerability in his eyes met the fierce determination in hers.
“You shouldn’t be near me, Bianca,” he growled. “I am not a good man.”
“I don’t need a good man,” she whispered. “I need a real one.”
When his lips met hers, it wasn't a brutal assault; it was a desperate, consuming fire. Dominic touched her as if she were made of glass, yet with a hunger that left her breathless. For the first time in her life, Bianca felt seen, wanted, and cherished.
By the third night, the passion was undeniable. They consumed each other, erasing the ghosts of her past and the shadows of his. In the quiet aftermath of the third dawn, as Bianca lay with her head on Dominic’s chest, she felt a profound shift within her body—a sudden, deep warmth that she couldn’t explain.
Four weeks later, the impossible happened.
Bianca stood in the master bathroom, staring at the double pink lines on the plastic stick in her hand.
She was pregnant.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Infertile. Permanent damage. The words of Dr. Ferris echoed in her mind. It was a medical impossibility. Unless... the diagnosis had been a lie.
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Before she could process the shock, the bathroom door opened. Dominic stood there, holding a tablet. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so tightly the scar on his cheek flushed red.
“Bianca,” he said, his voice shaking with a rare, terrifying emotion. “I just intercepted a secure wire transfer. Your father’s main account just received fifty million dollars from an offshore trust. The sender is Dr. Elliot Ferris.”
