Hannah’s POV

Dinner at the Sterling estate was a solitary affair served in my suite—a feast of herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables, and chocolate soufflé that would have fed me for three days back at Edward’s. I ate at the marble-topped table by the window, watching darkness settle over the manicured gardens below.

My mind kept returning to Finn’s face at the pool—that brief flash of something almost human before the walls came back up. And if I was being completely honest with myself, I couldn’t ignore how striking he was. Those sharp features, broad shoulders, and commanding presence… If I had to be contracted to conceive a child with someone, at least he was gorgeous, even if he might be gay.

The thought made me blush. Was I really finding the silver lining in this situation? But I couldn’t help it. Despite his terrifying demeanor, Finn was exactly my type physically—tall, muscular, with that dangerous edge that had always drawn me to the wrong men in college.

After dinner, I wandered back to my suite, fingers trailing along wood-paneled walls that probably cost more than Edward’s entire house. The contrast was jarring—my tiny room at Edward’s with its sagging twin bed versus this palatial suite with its king-sized four-poster and private sitting area.

I grabbed my toiletries and headed for the bathroom, eager to wash away the chlorine from the pool. The bathroom was a marvel of Italian marble and gold fixtures, with a shower large enough for four people and a soaking tub that resembled a small pool. I turned on the shower, letting steam fill the room while I stripped off my clothes.

Under the hot spray, I did what I always did when alone—I sang. Loudly and probably off-key, but with enthusiasm. It was a habit from childhood, one that my siblings had teased me mercilessly about. “Hannah’s voice could make flowers wilt,” my brother James used to joke.

But singing made me happy, and God knew I needed some happiness right now. I belted out Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” using my shampoo bottle as a microphone while conditioner ran down my back.

Wrapped in a plush towel, still humming, I pushed open the bathroom door—and froze.

Finn sat on the edge of my bed, his posture rigid, sunglasses still firmly in place despite being indoors.

“You’re murdering that song,” he said flatly.

My heart slammed against my ribs. “What are you doing in my room?” I clutched the towel tighter, acutely aware I was wearing nothing underneath. “How did you even get in here?”

“My house,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

I edged toward the closet, trying to maintain distance between us. When I opened it to find pajamas, my jaw dropped. Every single nightgown inside was sheer, scandalously revealing lingerie. Each piece had strategic openings in intimate places that made my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment.

I frantically searched for anything remotely modest, but came up empty-handed. Glancing back at Finn, I remembered he couldn’t actually see me. With a resigned sigh, I grabbed the least revealing option and slipped it on, my face still burning. At least his blindness offered some small mercy in this mortifying situation.

I grabbed my hairdryer from my toiletry bag, determined to assert some control over the situation. “Well, I’m done singing. If you’ll excuse me, I need to dry my hair.”

I plugged in the dryer and turned it on. Less than a minute later, something soft hit the back of my head—a throw pillow from the bed.

“Are you kidding me?” I whirled around, shutting off the dryer. “What is your problem?”

Finn’s face contorted. “The noise,” he said through gritted teeth.

The special education teacher in me immediately recognized the sensory processing issue. Many of my visually impaired students developed heightened sensitivity to sound after losing their sight—their brains rewiring to compensate for the missing visual input.

“I’m sorry,” I said, softening my tone. “I didn’t realize. I’ll go somewhere else to dry my hair.”

“No.” His command stopped me as I reached for the door. “Bathroom. When water’s running, outside sounds are muffled.”

“I’ll just be out here,” I said, my voice embarrassingly high. “Call if you need anything.”

His head tilted, those hidden eyes somehow finding me unerringly. “Enjoying the view?”

Heat flooded my face. “I—no—I’m going.”

I fled, closing the door behind me, heart pounding. Soon I heard the shower running, and I continued drying my hair, the whir of the hairdryer filling the bedroom as I sat on the edge of the bed.

What had I gotten myself into? This man was dangerous, unpredictable… and undeniably magnetic. The contract suddenly felt very real, as did the implications of what I’d agreed to.

For Peter, I reminded myself. All of this was for Peter.

But as I listened to the water running, a small part of me couldn’t help feeling relieved—even a little excited—that the man I was contracted to conceive with was so physically perfect. It was shallow, I knew that, but it made the prospect of fulfilling my end of the bargain slightly less daunting.

The water shut off. Minutes later, the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam.

Finn stepped out with nothing but a towel wrapped low around his hips, his sunglasses still firmly in place. Water droplets traced paths down his chiseled chest and abs, highlighting every perfect muscle.

His wet hair was slicked back, making his sharp features even more pronounced.