Armani’s POV
I pick up my ukulele from the dresser and settle against the headboard, fingers idly strumming as my mind drifts. There’s too much to process—more than I ever wanted to. This was supposed to be simple. Find the right surrogate. Marry her for show. Have a son. No emotions. No complications. Just a clean transaction.
I should have known better.
I underestimated how much a woman like Rena could disrupt everything. I had assumed money would smooth out any rough edges, that emotions wouldn’t even enter the equation.
And yet, here I am.
The thought of saving oneself for marriage has always seemed outdated to me, though I wouldn’t deny there’s a certain appeal in the idea. The exclusivity of it. Being the first—the only—to touch her, to learn her body, to hear the sounds she mak
