Prologue
Alex
Consciousness doesn’t return to me in a gentle, sunlit wave. Instead, it hits me like a physical blow, dragging, kicking, and screaming from the heavy, suffocating depths of a dreamless sleep.
“Ugh,” I groan, the sound catching painfully in the back of my throat that feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper.
My mouth is bone-dry, tasting of stale, expensive champagne and a lingering, warmth I can’t quite name.
A pounding ache vibrates behind my eyes, matching the frantic beat of my pulse.
I try to roll over, but my body refuses to cooperate.
I’m pinned, tangled in a Charlotte’s web of heavy sheets and a plush duvet.
My hair—usually a tamed, glossy cascades of is a currently a wild, static charged bird’s nest, clinging to my damn neck, and obscuring my vision.
I blink against the dim light filtering through the heavy, blackout curtains of the room.
Where the hell am I?
The thought sparks a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline.
I bolt upright, at least I try to, before the room spins violently, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.
When the tilt-a-whirl rollercoaster subsided, I look down.
The mattress beneath me is massive, a sprawling king-size bed, crisp, white cotton sheets, and a heavy duvet that’s entirely unfamiliar.
I don’t own sheets that aren’t colorful, nor do I sleep on a mattress that feels like a literal cloud.
I lift the edge of the sheet, peaking underneath, my heart beats like a stampede of wild horses.
Nothing. I’m not wearing a single stitch of clothing.
Panic, sharp, and cold flares in my chest, I scan the dimly lit room, my eyes darting from the sleek, mid-century modern nightstands to the massive flat screen TV that’s mounted on the wall, and to finally the luggage rack in the corner.
My familiar, slightly scuffed designer suitcase is half-undone with a black silk camisole spilling out of the side.
I let out a long, breath, my shoulders sagging in relief, and the tension leaves my body in a rush.
At least I’m in my hotel room.
The relief is short-lived, quickly replaced by a sense of dread. If this is my room in Las Vegas, why can’t I remember getting back to it and why does my entire being feel utterly, exhausted as if I spent last night running a marathon.
I throw my legs over the edge of the mattress, I cling to the top sheet like a makeshift toga, securing the heavy fabric around my naked body.
When I stand up, my knees wobbly, my balance threatening to betray me.
I anchor my grip on the nightstand, before I navigate the short distance to the bathroom, the chaotic-ness that’s my mind is full of blank spaces and shadowy half-memories.
My bleary eyes can’t handle the entirely too bright LED lighting in the bathroom, so I do my best to avoid it and the mirror all together.
I know exactly what I would see in my reflection: dark circles, smudged mascara, and the look of a woman who let Vegas win.
Me, the woman who always has her shit together, who can go against men who think they’re smarter than me, and here I am not having the stomach to face my reflection just yet.
I drop the sheets, walk straight toward the walk-in glass shower, turn the handle all the way to hot, and without waiting a beat or for the water to create a steam, I step inside.
My eyes close as I lift my head, allowing the stream fall and work it’s magic against my aching muscles, washing away the physical reminder of a night I couldn’t place.
I raise my hands to sweep my wet hair back and wash the sleep from my face.
But as I life my left hand, something feels off. A strange, subtle sensation, like a weight is pulling at my finger. I pause, my hands hovering inches from my face. I pop open one eye, my gaze focusing on my hand, and my stomach plummets to my feet.
On my finger, my very important ring finger is a platinum band, dominated by a massive, emerald-cut diamond. The harsh bathroom light catches on the brilliancy, dazzling rainbows dance across the gem. It’s stunning, unapologetically descendant, and worst of all…real.
I freeze, except that doesn’t seem to stop the world from spinning.
I close my eyes, trying to blink away the ring, only to open them, and it’s still there.
I lower my hand, back up a few paces only to slide down the wet, tilled wall of the shower until my ass meets the floor while hot water beats down on my throbbing head and aching shoulders.
I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to fill the blank spaces in my head, begging for a memory, any memory to appear.
And then, like a camera lens snapping into focus, the first blip returns.
A heavy magnetic presence drew me in from across a crowded dimly lit bar.
I remember the silhouette of e a man—broad-shouldered, towering, and radiating effortless authority that had the rest of the world fading into a blur.
Then his voice came back to me, deep gravelly and vibrated straight to my core, whispering words that makes my skin flush, even now sitting under the hot water.
"Let them look. You don't belong to them, Alexandria. You belong to me." A face materializes in my mind’s eye, though is features remain frustratingly vague. I can’t quite pin the exact color of his eyes or why he was there, but I do remember a dark shadow of stubble, a jawline that looked as though it had been carved from granite, and a devilish, roguish smirk that told me he’s a man who gets exactly he wanted, when he wanted it.
The man is a mystery wrapped in an expensive suit and an air of absolute power, the type I swore to myself I’d stay away from after working with his type for too many years to count.
Another memory flashes, hot and sudden, we were in a confined space—an elevator, or maybe a stairwell.
He had me pinned against the wall, his warm hands anchoring my hips against his hard frame.
The raw, possessive intensity of his thumb tracing the sensitive underside of my jaw before he leaned down to devour my mouth.
I gasp, my hand flying to my wet lips as if I can still feel the bruising pressure of his kiss.
I remember the taste of him: smokey, dark, and intoxicating.
“Tell me to stop, Alexandria,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against the shell of my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “If you don’t, I’m taking you back to your room, and I’ll have you begging for more.”
I didn’t tell him to stop, I pulled him closer, my fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, begging for more.
Memories flood my brain, chaotic and messy.
The sound of his deep laugh, one that felt private, meant only for me.
The feel of his hands tracing the curve of my waist, pulling me flush, showing me how perfectly I fit against him.
The way his gaze darkened with a heavy, unspoken promise.
And his mouth. Jesus, his dirty, wicked mouth.
He whispered things to me in the dark, filthy, breathless promises of what he was going to do to me, how I belonged to him, and he stripped away every last one of my defenses.
But how, how did I end up here? And with this mammoth of a ring on my finger.
“Oh fuck, I’m married.” I press my forehead to my knees when realization hits. Slowly, I stand up, turn off the water, and step out. I wrap a fresh towel around myself, walk back into the bedroom, my eyes scanning the space with a clearer focus.
That’s when I see it, resting on the table near the door next to a bottle of water is a small, cream-colored piece of paper.
I double my pace, reaching out to grab the heavy cardstock with trembling fingers, I pick it up.
Written in a strong, elegant, and familiar cursive script are words that has me falling on my ass.
Good morning, Wife,
You’re wearing my diamond, Alexandria. You belong to me now. Don't even think about running. I always keep what’s mine, and that’s you. I’ll be back to finish what we started.
—Dante
Oh my god, oh my fucking god, I married my boss’s best friend at a conference in Vegas and I don’t remember it.