The rain in Milan didn't care that Casey Finch's life had just been signed away.
She stood under a streetlight that flickered like a dying star, her hair soaking wet, her arms clutched tightly around her stomach as if her body already knew it no longer belonged to her. Her suitcase sat beside her, half-zipped, tired like her. The drizzle had turned her thin blouse nearly see-through, but she didn't care. Not when her heart felt heavier than her luggage.
"Miss Finch?" a deep voice rasped from behind.
She didn't flinch—maybe she didn't have the energy. Slowly, she turned around.
He was taller than she imagined. Not just tall—commanding. Ivan Park wasn't the kind of man you'd forget even if you begged the universe to help you. Dressed in an all-black tailored suit, his presence was less man, more shadow. He looked at her like she was a broken piece of property delivered late.
"No makeup. No heels. No lipstick." His eyes scanned her lazily. "Good. Makes it easier not to pretend you're anything more than what you are."
"And what's that?" she asked softly.
He smirked, and something about it felt like a knife across her spine. "A womb."
Casey blinked, but didn't react. Not with her body. Her mind screamed, though. Loud. Overwhelming. Ugly.
Ivan Park. The man who had bought her womb for 9 million euros.
She followed him silently into the car, the door held open by a silent guard whose face looked like it had been carved by war. The vehicle smelled like cold leather and clean cruelty. The driver didn't speak. Ivan didn't either. He scrolled through his phone, texting rapidly. Probably arranging another death. Probably discussing his next empire. Definitely not thinking about the scared girl beside him who was about to carry his heir.
The mansion was made of glass and marble. A place too perfect to ever feel warm. A place where emotions go to die.
"You'll live here for nine months. You'll eat what the doctor says. No caffeine. No stress. No visitors. And don't speak to me unless I ask you to," Ivan instructed as they entered. His accent was smooth, laced with arrogance, barely Italian.
Casey's voice was small. "What happens after?"
Ivan stopped mid-step. His gaze burned.
"After what?"
"After the child's born."
He smiled—no, he didn't smile. He curled his lip. "You'll vanish. And so will your name."
Casey nodded. Quiet. Controlled. But deep inside, she knew something he didn't.
She wouldn't vanish.
Not yet.
Night came. Sleep didn't.
She lay in a king-sized bed that felt more like a trap, her eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling. Was it worth it? Nine million euros. A child. Her body. Her name. Her freedom. Her dignity.
She remembered her brother's oxygen mask. The hospital bills stacked on the kitchen counter back home. She remembered hunger, remembered shame. She remembered saying yes.
A knock startled her.
Before she could even answer, the door creaked open.
Ivan.
His silhouette leaned against the frame, a glass of whiskey in hand. His tie was loosened, and his eyes were slightly tired—but not soft. Never soft.
"I don't trust you," he said bluntly.
"Then don't," she replied, holding his gaze.
A beat passed. And then, to her absolute confusion, Ivan laughed. Not a real laugh—just a short, dry one, like he hadn't used that part of himself in years.
"Don't get clever, Finch. You're here to serve. This isn't a storybook. I'm not a prince."
Casey sat up. "You think I want a prince?"
He walked in slowly. "Don't want anything. Just stay useful."
As he turned to leave, she muttered, "Even monsters were once babies."
He paused.
For just a second, something flickered in his eyes. But it was gone before it could mean anything.
By morning, Casey had thrown up twice. The doctor said it was normal. Ivan didn't care.
"You're not allowed to cry in front of my staff," he snapped after hearing her sob in the bathroom. "It makes you look weak. It makes me look worse."
"Then don't listen," she shot back.
Another flicker in his eye. That dangerous one. That maybe-she's-not-just-a-womb one.
He stepped closer, invading her air.
"You forget your place a lot."
"And you forget I'm a human," she whispered.
"I don't forget. I just don't care."
He walked out.
She cried harder. And then laughed. Hysterically.
God, what had she gotten herself into?
Three weeks passed.
Casey tried to keep to herself. She wrote fake diary entries in her mind. "Dear Casey, today you met the devil and smiled politely."
She started talking to the baby growing inside her at night.
"Your dad's a psychopath, but at least you'll have great cheekbones."
Some days she wanted to run. Some days she just wanted him to ask her if she was okay.
But he never did.
Not once.
Then came the day she fainted in the kitchen. The chef screamed. The guard panicked. And Ivan? Ivan burst into the room like someone had shot his spine.
He caught her before she hit the floor.
"Get the doctor! Now!"
His arms were strong. Warm. Familiar, somehow. His jaw clenched as he looked at her pale face.
"Don't you dare lose this child," he growled, half to her, half to himself.
And for the first time…
She saw fear in his eyes.
Not for her.
For the child.
Only the child.
But it still made her wonder—what if one day, just one day, he'd care about her too?
Even monsters, after all, were once babies.