The Surrogate He Discarded

Charlotte’s fingers curled tightly around the strap of her handbag.

Fiancée.

The word struck a nerve.

For a moment, she saw the ring again—the diamond resting against her finger, catching the light whenever she moved her hand.

Then Kristoff’s promise of a grand wedding, and the promise of forever.

Charlotte swallowed.

Then she remembered Kristoff’s face when he ended their relationship.

There had been no warmth in his eyes. No hesitation. No trace of the man who had once held her and sworn that she was the only woman he would ever love despite her flaws.

And then there was the photograph...Kristoff carrying Isobel in his arms.

The image had burned itself into Charlotte’s memory.

Her fingers tightened around the handbag until the leather creased beneath them.

Her expression hardened.

”Not anymore.”

Marco’s faint smile faded.

”Ah.”

Charlotte raised her chin and met his gaze.

”We broke up.”

”So,” Marco said, studying her, ”you come to me to help me defeat your ex for revenge.”

Charlotte’s lips curved into a cold smile.

”Yes.”

Marco regarded her for a long moment.

He didn’t immediately respond.

Instead, his eyes remained fixed on her face, as though he was trying to determine whether she was telling the truth or merely giving him the answer she thought he wanted.

Finally, he asked,

”Why?”

Charlotte’s smile disappeared.

Because she wanted revenge. Because Kristoff had broken her heart. Because she had spent too many nights lying awake, staring into the darkness and wondering how the man who had once promised her forever could abandon her so easily.

Because some part of her still loved him.

That was the truth she hated most.

But she would never give Marco the satisfaction of seeing her desperation.

She leaned forward instead, resting her hands lightly against the edge of the table.

”I don’t think you need to know why.”

Marco’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

”Oh, I think I do.”

His voice remained calm, almost casual, but there was a challenge beneath it.

”If you want to form an alliance with me, I need to know exactly what I’m getting myself into.”

Charlotte stared at him.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then, slowly, a smile appeared on her lips.

”Then perhaps we should start with what I know about Kristoff.”

The change in Marco was almost imperceptible.

But Charlotte noticed it.

His amusement vanished. His posture became still.

And for the first time, she caught a glimpse of something beneath his carefully controlled exterior.

Interest. And something darker.

Marco reached beneath the table. He pressed a concealed button

Click.

Charlotte’s eyes flicked to the left.

One section of the enormous oak panel shifted.

Charlotte’s eyebrows rose.

A door.

She hadn’t noticed it before.

The craftsmanship was so precise that the panel looked indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. Even after staring at it, Charlotte couldn’t have pointed out where the door began or ended.

Marco rose.

He gestured toward the opening.

”I want sincerity, Charlotte.”

Charlotte’s head snapped toward him.

”What?”

”Show me your sincerity.”

A chill traveled through her.

It began somewhere deep in her stomach and climbed slowly toward her chest, making her heartbeat quicken.

For the first time since entering Marco’s office, she felt genuinely afraid.

Marco was dangerous. Far more dangerous than Kristoff.

Yet Charlotte had come too far to turn back now.

She stood.

Marco walked through the concealed doorway.

After a moment’s hesitation, Charlotte followed.

The room beyond was unexpectedly intimate.

It was a private resting room, furnished with a large bed, a black three-seater sofa, a low coffee table, and a bathroom tucked behind another door.

There was something unsettling about the room’s comfort. It felt like a place designed for someone who valued privacy above all else.

Marco walked toward the sofa and sat down.

The concealed door closed behind Charlotte with a soft click.

She turned toward it instinctively.

For one irrational second, she considered opening it and running away.

Her instincts screamed at her to run. But she forced herself to turn around.

Marco was watching her.

”What do you want?” Charlotte asked.

Her voice remained steady. She refused to let him hear the tremor threatening to creep into it.

Her fear was hidden behind the same expression she wore on a runway—cold, serious, and perfectly composed.

Marco’s lips curved upward.

”What a fiery little cat.”

He reached toward the coffee table and picked up a cigarette from an open pack.

He rolled it slowly between his fingers.

As before, he didn’t light it.

”I told you what I want. Sincerity, Miss Harris.”

His expression became serious.

Charlotte stared at him.

”What does that mean?”

Marco’s eyes held hers.

”Strip.”

The word fell into the room with brutal simplicity.

Charlotte froze. For several seconds, she couldn’t move.

The carefully composed expression on her face disappeared as shock registered.

Marco watched her without saying a word.

Then an amused smile slowly appeared on his face, softening his otherwise sharp features.

”If you can’t do it, there’s no deal between us, Miss Harris.”

His tone became colder.

”Forget that we ever met today.”

Silence settled between them.

Charlotte lowered her gaze. Her heart was pounding. She could walk away.

She could open the door, leave this room, and put the entire encounter behind her.

But then she would lose the opportunity to bring Kristoff down.

She closed her eyes.

It’s only undressing.

She had done it countless times before.

As a model, changing clothes in front of stylists and assistants was nothing unusual. She had worn swimsuits and revealing designer pieces in front of photographers, production crews, and entire audiences.

She knew how to endure people’s eyes. She knew how to turn herself into an image.

And most importantly, she knew how to remain composed when people were watching.

When Charlotte opened her eyes again, the hesitation was gone.

She reached for the zipper of her dress.

Her movements were calm and deliberate.

The dress slipped from her shoulders and fell to the carpet at her feet.

She stepped out of it and straightened.

Marco’s eyebrows rose slightly.

A quiet whistle escaped him.

Charlotte ignored it.

She stood tall and motionless, refusing to cover herself or look away.

She had spent years under the scrutiny of cameras and strangers. She knew the difference between admiration and possession, between curiosity and control.

Marco’s gaze lingered on her.

He looked at her as though he were assessing something valuable placed before him.

Charlotte gave him nothing in return.

No embarrassment. No nervousness.

Only a steady, defiant stare.

If he expected her to shrink beneath his attention, he was going to be disappointed.

For a moment, the two simply watched one another.

Then Marco lifted the unlit cigarette between two fingers.

”Come here.”

Charlotte didn’t move immediately.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

”Light my cigarette for me.”

Charlotte’s expression remained unreadable.

Then she walked toward him.

Her movements were smooth and deliberate, carrying the effortless confidence of a supermodel crossing a runway.

She refused to hurry. Refused to hesitate. Refused to let Marco see how violently her heart was beating.

If this was his test, she would pass it on her terms.