Stella's POV I stared at the pregnancy test sitting on the counter, repeating to myself, 'Stop, Stella. It can't be. It's not possible.' For weeks, I'd been lying to myself. But the missed period, the dizziness, the nausea… they'd already become part of my routine. In the end, I couldn't fight it anymore. Three months ago, I had signed a contract with Damian Winter, my boss. In that contract, I agreed to satisfy his sexual needs in absolute secrecy, on the condition that I took birth control regularly to prevent any pregnancy. If a pregnancy happened, I would have to pay ten times what he had paid me. An impossible amount for someone like me, who was still struggling to pay off my late father's gambling debts. The memory of the night before still burned beneath my skin. I closed my eyes and, for a moment, I was dragged back to that bedroom. His scent still clung to the sheets. The shadows were broken only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Heavy breathing filled the si

Stella's POV I should have learned how to whisper. Or better yet, how to shut up entirely. But sometimes frustration slipped out before I could swallow it back down. "Did you call me a robot?" Everything in me froze. My muscles, throat, and breathing. My stomach twisted into a knot. Every cell in my body screamed at me to run, but all I managed to do was turn slowly, as if I could delay the inevitable. "I-I… no, sir. Of course not." I tried to smile. The attempt died halfway. "I was talking about… something else. A printer. An old one. In the records room. It jams all the time, makes horrible noises… like an old robot. That's all." Silence followed. Damian Winter was a master of silence. A master at staring without expression, without visible anger, and still making me feel like I was being judged by an entire courtroom. He didn't respond. He just stared at me with those glassy eyes that were cold, clear, and impossible to read. As if he were stripping my soul bare, w

Stella's POV Pretending to be sick didn't take any effort. After what happened yesterday, my entire body felt like it had been run over by a truck. There was a crushing emotional weight keeping me pinned to the mattress, as I stared at the stained ceiling of my apartment. The kiss Damian gave me still felt like it was burning on my lips, like a brand. It wasn't a kiss. It was an invasion. A line crossed. The moment I stepped off the plane yesterday, everything inside me screamed to run. My heart raced so hard I barely slept last night. And when I finally did, I dreamed about him. I can still remember the weight of his body over mine, his hand holding my face, the hunger in his eyes, my own sounds begging for more. So this morning, I called HR and said I wasn't feeling well. I didn't even have to fake the cold. My voice already sounded broken. I spent the entire day thinking about quitting. I opened my laptop, typed a few lines, then deleted everything right after. The truth s

Stella's POV Three days had passed since I signed that contract with trembling hands and a shattered heart. Three days since I undressed in front of him and, with one last breath of dignity, asked how much he'd pay each time we would do it. Three days of trying to stay sane while keeping up my professional routine, which continued with the same hypocritical formality as always, except now there was an invisible rope pulling me toward him, and another forcing me to resist. Damian Winter was the most unbearably cold man I had ever met. And the most dangerous. Not because he yelled, or broke things, or lost control. Quite the opposite. He never seemed to lose it. A true robot, as I'd nicknamed him from day one. But even robots have flaws, and ever since I'd put myself at his disposal, or been forced to, he seemed determined to watch me break little by little. These days had been hell, caught between his threats and his not-at-all-subtle attempts to seduce me. When I say "not subtle,

Damian's POV The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was more irritating than any board meeting. My mother had the company's symbol embroidered onto every linen napkin. The same symbol was stamped on the plates, the glasses, even the damn napkin rings. We were literally surrounded by our legacy. The weekly dinner at my parents' house was a ritual. It was almost a ceremony. Everyone was there. My father, William Winter, or WW as I usually call him when he gets on my nerves, was in an Armani suit even inside the house, as if his authority depended on the tie he chose that day. My mother, Elaine, smiled a little too much, serving the dishes as if we still lived in the last century. And my younger sister, Lizzy. She was… well, the best way to describe her was that she was my complete opposite. She was cheerful, irresponsible, adventurous… and rebellious. "You're eating so little, Damian," my mother observed. "You're too thin. Working too much with that insane routine of yours." "