"So level with me, bro. When exactly do I get my turn with Liv?"

Nate's voice dropped an octave, threat unmistakable.


"Don't think screwing Wilson makes you untouchable. For every Marcus Mitchell, he's got ten more pretty boys lined up."

I fought the urge to throw him bodily from the car, nails drawing blood from my palms:

"After the charity gala next week. I'll bring her to the hot spring villa."


"Fucking finally!" He grinned, producing a small vial from his jacket and pressing it into my palm.

"Got the special sauce ready. Slip it in her drink before we arrive."


My fingers trembled around the cold glass.

"...What exactly is this?"

"Relax, it's the latest formula. Totally safe."

His smile turned vulgar. "Just something to make my uptight cousin beg for it."

Hand on the door handle, he shot me a warning look:

"Don't flake on me next week."

The door slammed shut.

Silence crashed down, broken only by my ragged breathing.

I stared at the vial, then let out a hollow laugh.

The universe has a sick sense of humor—

Two predators who want to violate me, both delivered right into my hands.

Wilson wants to use me.

Nate wants to own me.

Perfect.

Time to direct my own little production.

Back at the suite, I found Marcus—in my pregnant body—pacing anxiously.

Seeing me, he struggled to his feet, one hand supporting his lower back—exactly how I moved at six months pregnant.

"Did anything... happen on set today?" Tension threaded through every word.

I kept my expression neutral. "What do you think might have happened?"

His face went blank before he looked away. "N-nothing. Good. Let's focus on switching back."

I casually dropped my bombshell:

"Oh, by the way, Wilson mentioned his back's been killing him. He heard about the therapeutic pools at my family's hot spring villa and wants to stay there next week."

"You WHAT?" Marcus's face drained of color, voice rising to a near-shout.

I nodded calmly:

"Of course I agreed. Wilson's practically Hollywood royalty. People would kill for face time with him. How could I refuse such a small favor?"

"Why the hell didn't you run this by me first?" His hands shook, sweat beading at his hairline.

I feigned confusion:

"It's just industry networking. Why are you freaking out?"

Marcus visibly struggled for control, knuckles white:

"I'm worried you don't understand how this business works. What if you screw up the hospitality and piss him off?"

"Good point," I said breezily.

"That's why I invited Nate along too. He's been dying to break into film production. Perfect chance to learn from Wilson."

"Nathan's coming?" He shot to his feet.

The sudden movement triggered a wave of pregnancy nausea. His face went green as he clapped a hand over his mouth and bolted for the bathroom.

I followed, clicking my tongue disapprovingly:

"Six months pregnant and still no self-control? Really?"

Between heaves, he shot me a venomous glare:

"This is YOUR fault! If we hadn't switched, I wouldn't be suffering! Your damn baby kicked all day—couldn't keep anything down!"

I let out a harsh laugh:

"It's just morning sickness. How bad could it possibly be?"

I stared him down, each word like ice:

"Didn't you tell me your mother worked sixty-hour weeks until the day before you were born?"

He had no response.

My second trimester had been hell.

Night after night, I'd lie awake starving, too afraid to wake him by going to the kitchen.

One particularly bad night, I'd gently shaken him awake, just needing him to heat some milk.

He'd yanked the covers over his head, turned away, and muttered:

"Just deal with it."

Now he couldn't handle one bout of nausea?

Pathetic.