“This is our marriage contract,” the boss says in a tone that allows no objections. “You’ll marry me. Fictitiously. Your child will become my heir—I’ll raise him as my own.”
“Do you know about my pregnancy?” I gasp, covering my still-flat stomach with my palm.
“I’m aware of the sister whose treatment you pay for too,” he cuts in. “One call from me, and her surgery will be done without waiting. She’ll live.”
“Really?” I can’t believe my ears.
“Will you do it?”
“Sign,” he nods toward the contract. “I need your child. Tell everyone that he’s mine. He is already mine from you—you just don’t remember it…”
“You forgot about our accidental night.”