The polished surface of my mahogany desk reflected the city lights outside, a perfect mirror to the meticulously ordered world I'd built around myself. At twenty-eight, I was an angel investor, and while I could work from anywhere, I maintained this downtown office, a full floor of a high-rise, because my mother liked to see me behind a desk. It was a small concession for a woman who saw an angel where others might see a monster.

My gaze drifted to the inner office, where the soft glow of a computer screen illuminated my secretary, Samantha Logan. Sam. She was a vision of wholesome Americana, all wild curls, mahogany skin, and a shyness that was both annoying and exquisitely alluring. She was the final piece of my puzzle, the answer to my nascent desire for progeny.

Today, the office was quiet, a calculated silence. I’d personally rearranged appointments, ensuring we would be alone. Sam, ever diligent, was still trying to make sense of the empty schedule. The trap was set, and she, unknowingly, was about to waltz right into it.