The Sterile CEO's Special Delivery

He was forced to step down after being declared sterile. Today, his family is holding a press conference to announce that his illegitimate half-brother will inherit the empire.

A courier arrives at the press conference, holding a baby high in the air.

Who's Marcus Davenport? I've got a special delivery for you: your son.

"Someone sign for this, please. I've got another order to run."

1

I asked a courier to help me deliver a son.

The courier asked, "To who?"

I said, "The sterile CEO, Marcus Davenport."

He was forced to step down after being declared sterile. Today, his family is holding a press conference to announce that his illegitimate half-brother will inherit the empire.

The courier arrives at the press conference, holding a baby high in the air.

"Who's Marcus Davenport? I've got a special delivery for you: your son."

"Someone sign for this, please. I've got another order to run."

The press conference was a sea of flashing cameras and hushed whispers. Suddenly, a single voice cut through the noise, and every journalist in the room pricked up their ears.

"Is he serious? I thought Marcus Davenport couldn't have kids. Wasn't that the whole reason the Chairman is ousting him? To put that other son on the throne?"

"It was that earthquake three years ago. He was saving a kid from the rubble during an aftershock and got impaled by a piece of rebar. Lost the ability to have children, just like that. Became the 'Sterile CEO.' The Chairman immediately announced he had another son studying abroad, that the family line wasn't broken. He said hed be grooming the illegitimate one to take over."

Three years had passed. Derek, the son who was once a dirty secret, was now the golden boy. The moment he returned to the States, he moved to force Marcus, the only legitimate heir, to abdicate his position as CEO of Davenport Industries.

In a quiet moment before the press conference, I overheard Derek taunting Marcus. I was in the next bathroom stall.

"I almost feel bad for you, my dear brother," Derek sneered, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "But really, who can I blame? You?"

"Who told you to be a hero? An earthquake hits, and any sane person runs. You run toward it, join a damn rescue team. Haven't you ever heard the saying? No good deed goes unpunished."

"You saved one kid and lost the ability to ever have your own. Tragic, really. I almost want to pity you. How does it feel to have been dealt such a perfect hand and just fumble it all away?"

"I honestly thought I'd spend my whole life as the dirty little secret, living in your shadow. But look at this. A total win, and I didn't even have to lift a finger. Hilarious, isn't it?"

I happened to be at the adjoining mall, working a miserable gig in a furry mascot costume to make money for formula. Id just ducked into the restroom and was on my way out when I heard that smug bastards voice mocking the father of my child.

A switch flipped inside me. I decided then and there to do something big.

I found out Davenport Industries was holding the press conference today.

I found a courier waiting for a pickup nearby.

"I'll Venmo you fifty bucks," I said, my voice muffled by the giant cartoon rabbit head I was still wearing. "I need you to make an express delivery to the Davenport Industries press conference. Right now. Can you do it?"

He eyed my costume. "What are you delivering?"

I pulled a warm, pink, impossibly tiny baby from the oversized pouch of my costume.

"Deliver him to the sterile CEO, Marcus Davenport."

"Tell him this is his biological son."

"And if he doesn't believe it, tell him to run a paternity test."

The couriers eyes went wide.

"For real? You're not kidding me, right? You didn't, like, kidnap this kid?"

"Everyone knows Marcus Davenport is sterile," he added, his voice a whisper.

I didn't know how to explain the whole situation. But then, his expression shifted.

"I'll do it," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "I can't stand seeing these bastards take what's not theirs. Let's do something big."

Ten minutes later, just as Chairman Davenport was on stage announcing that Marcus would be taking an extended leave of absence to "rest and recuperate," and that the title of CEO would be transferred to Derek, the courier burst in. He held my son aloft like a tiny, squirming trophy and bellowed:

"Who's Marcus Davenport? Got a special delivery for yayour son."

He scanned the shocked faces. "C'mon, somebody sign for this. I'm on the clock here, I've got another order to run."

The room erupted.

It was pure chaos. Every reporter spun around, their cameras refocusing on the courier and the baby. One journalist shoved a microphone in his face. "Could you repeat that? What are you delivering?"

The couriers voice boomed.

"Marcus Davenports son."

"Don't interview me, man. I'm just the delivery guy. I don't know anything else. Where is he?"

He raised his voice again. "Mr. Davenport! Your son is here! Can you come sign for him, please? Chop chop, I'm in a hurry."

2

I was watching a livestream from my phone just outside the venue, practically rolling on the floor with laughter.

I could only imagine the looks on everyone's faces, especially that arrogant prick, Derek.

And Marcus. The father of my child.

It all started a year ago.

Im a shifter. A Scottish Fold bunny shifter, to be exact.

That night, my monthly cycle was hitting me hard. The hormones were a wildfire in my veins.

I was tossing and turning in my little burrow of a den, unable to sleep. Finally, I shifted to my human form.

I jumped on my beat-up Vespa to go to the pharmacy for suppressants.

The heat was already making my head swim. I got distracted, forgot I was colorblind, and blew right through a red light.

A Maybach swerved violently to avoid hitting me, careening into the path of an oncoming semi-truck. The impact was horrific; the Maybach was sent flying.

The truck driver, seeing no witnesses, panicked and sped off.

I immediately ditched the Vespa and ran to the mangled car. Inside, I found Marcus Davenport, slumped over the steering wheel, barely breathing.

"Hey," I whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Don't you fall asleep."

It took every ounce of my strength, but I managed to pull him from the wreckage. I checked for a pulse. It was faint, thready. He was fading fast.

He wouldn't make it by the time an ambulance arrived.

And this was my fault. He crashed because of me.

In a moment of pure desperation, I let my two front teeth extend.

I bit down. Hard. On his neck.

Lucky for him, during our cycle, we bunny shifters have a temporary, super-charged healing ability.

"Ngh what are you doing? Let go," he groaned, his body trembling from the pain.

"Shut up if you don't want to die," I growled, my voice rough. "Or I'll really give you something to complain about."

He went quiet.

After biting him, the heat raging through me got even worse. This man he was a work of art.

That face, that chest, that waist, those legs

Every inch of him was intoxicating. It was enough to make a good bunny go bad.

It was a dark and moonless night. The perfect setting for a crime of passion.

The stars had aligned. It was too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

And he was barely conscious.

Completely at my mercy.

I remembered a comment Id seen online once: [So what if he's a genius in the boardroom? The guy's equipment is busted. What high-society woman wants an empty suit?]

I licked my dry lips.

The internet might not want him, but the hormone-crazed shifter in me definitely did.

Besides, his "equipment" might be broken, but mine was working just fine.

All he had to do was lie there.

I could handle the rest.

3

The hormones were taking over. I couldn't fight it.

I dragged him back into the relative privacy of the wrecked Maybach.

What happened next was a blur of chaotic, primal energy.

"What what are you doing?"

"Stop it. Who said you could touch me?"

"How dare you are you still touching me?!"

He was making too much noise. I ripped off his silk tie with a satisfying tearing sound.

I used it to blindfold him.

Then I leaned in, my lips brushing against the frantic pulse in his throat, and whispered, my voice a low, dangerous purr.

"Be quiet. I saved your life. Now you're mine for the night."

When it was all over, I could hear the faint wail of sirens in the distance.

I scrambled to pull myself together and ran.

Before hopping on my Vespa and disappearing into the night, I turned back, struck by a sudden, ridiculous impulse. I threw a line at him, my best attempt at an alpha-male declaration:

"Remember this. You've been marked by me. So even if you are sterile, you better stay faithful."

"And in return," I added, my voice softening just a little, "this bunny will protect you for life."

He probably thought I was insane.

But I meant it. And I never expected Id have to make good on that promise so soon.

Honestly, I hadn't expected any of this.

I thought sleeping with him was consequence-free. The internet said he was sterile. No need to worry about birth control.

Then came the morning sickness.

You have got to be kidding me. So much for "unable to have children."

Well, once I was pregnant, there was only one thing to do: have the babies.

A strong, independent woman raising kids on her own? It sounded kind of perfect.

So I gave birth to a litter.

A litter of seven. Six of them were born in their bunny forms. Fluffy, pink, and impossibly cute.

Only the seventh, my little Seven, stubbornly held onto his human baby form.

He must take after his father.

I never planned on using my son to claim a spot in the Davenport dynasty.

But then that bastard, Derek, had the audacity to bully the father of my children.

The man I marked.

He was my man.

And if I have one weakness, it's that I'm fiercely protective of my own.

My second weakness? I absolutely live for chaos.

4

The press conference was in shambles.

Only Marcus remained in his seat, perfectly still.

He clearly didn't believe the child was his.

But his mother, Eleanor Davenport, was already on her feet. She strode purposefully toward the courier, took the baby from his arms, and burst into tears of pure joy.

"My god," she gasped, her voice thick with emotion. "He he looks exactly like Marcus did as a baby. This is my grandson. There's no doubt."

She turned, her eyes blazing, and fixed her stare on her husband. "Richard! Do you see this? I have a grandson! Are you still going to tell me Marcus isn't fit to be the heir?"

This was her counter-attack.

First, Eleanor had to face the public humiliation of her son's infertility. Then, the sting of her husband's betrayal, his illegitimate son brought out of the shadows. And finally, the indignity of watching that same son try to usurp her own child.

She was done being a victim. At that moment, she didn't care if the baby was truly her grandson or not. She held Seven aloft like a shield and a sword, ready for war.

Chairman Davenport hurried down from the stage to see the baby. "What Marcus, what is the meaning of this?"

Marcus remained silent, a statue amidst the storm.

Reporters swarmed him, shouting questions.

"Mr. Davenport, is this really your son?"

"We were told you were unable to have children!"

"Who is the mother?"

"Mr. Davenport, is this just a stunt to disrupt the press conference and protect your position?"

"What does it feel like to be sterile, Mr. Davenport?"

Marcus didn't answer a single question.

It was Derek who broke the silence, his voice high and frantic.

"Dad, you can't believe this! The baby came from nowhere! For all we know, they hired some woman to bring a random baby here just to stir up trouble!"

"It's pathetic, but is it going to work? No! One DNA test and this whole charade falls apart."

"Just make the announcement," he pleaded. "Announce that I'm taking over as CEO of Davenport Industries."

Eleanor, still clutching the baby, walked right up to Derek.

She raised her hand and slapped him, hard, across the face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

"A DNA test? This is my grandson. I don't need a test to know my own flesh and blood."

Derek flinched, his hand rising as if to strike back, but he caught himself. In front of all these cameras, he held back. "Dad, do you see this? They're panicking. They know they can't do a DNA test. That baby is not my brother's."

Suddenly, Marcus stood up. He ignored everyonehis mother, his father, his brother, the reporters.

He walked away from the chaos, his shoulders slumped. He didn't look back.

He looked broken, defeated, and my heart ached for him.

The cameras followed his retreat until he was escorted out a side door by his security team, vanishing from sight.

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