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Nine months ago, I got pregnant by the wrong man. It started with a wrong delivery. My package of *ahem* “personal toys” went to my neighbor’s house instead of mine. Whoops, says the mailman. My life is over, says me. Because the man who lives next door is not just anybody. Uri Bugrov is rich, gorgeous—and super, super dangerous. The last thing I need is him knowing that I like all ten speeds of vibration. So I do the dumbest thing I’ve ever done: Sneak next door to steal it back before he finds it himself. And not to spoil the twist, but… He catches me. I brace myself for the riot act (or worse)... But it never comes. Instead comes an order I never would’ve predicted: “Have dinner with me.” It was either say yes or run screaming for the hills, and I’d already made enough bad decisions for one day. So that’s how I ended up breaking bread with the Bratva billionaire. Then, immediately afterwards, breaking headboards with him. When it was all over, I did in fact run screaming for the hills. Back to my house. Back to safety. But Mr. Bugrov came with me. Not as himself, exactly. But in the form of his babies in my belly. Whoops doesn’t even begin to cover THAT mistake.