The elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite, all glass and cold marble. I clutch my purse tighter, heels clicking like a countdown. \n\nThis is just business. A transaction. I’ve already vetted him—Alexander Vale, top-rated companion, no attachments, perfect genetics, clean background. I need a child, not a relationship. My divorce was final yesterday. I won’t be defined by betrayal. \n\nHe steps out from the shadows, buttoning a black dress shirt. Familiar jawline. Dark eyes that hold too much. I freeze. That face… I saw it in a business magazine last week. \n\n'You’re not Alexander,' I whisper. \n\n'I am,' he says softly. 'And I’m also Vincent Cross.' \n\nMy breath catches. 'Why would a billionaire CEO pretend to be an escort?' \n\nHe takes a step closer. 'Because you married someone else five years ago. I never stopped waiting.' \n\nI should run. Scream. Call the police. Instead, I stare into the eyes of the man who may hold my future—and wonder if I ever had a choice at all.