1. Alexandria
CHAPTER ONE
alexandria
The steady sound of the persistent drizzle does nothing to soothe the electric humming of anxiety flowing under my skin as I sit on the edge of my oversized velvet armchair.
The comfort I usually feel with the familiarity of my apartment isn’t here today.
Not even the cozy throw pillows, the lush pothos plant trailing down the bookshelf, or the fresh brewed coffee are grounding me.
I’m only anchored to one thing: the absurdly heavy, impossible-to-ignore piece of platinum and diamond sitting on my left hand. My thumb works on autopilot, compulsively spinning the massive emerald-cut stone around my ring finger.
Twist.
Turn.
Slide.
The metal is cold against my warm skin, a constant physical reminder that the fever dream in Las Vegas wasn’t a hallucination after all. This is real. I’m married. I push the band up past my knuckle, letting it sit at the top of my finger.
“I should just take it off,” I tell myself.
“Take it off, stick it in the bottom of my jewelry box, and pretend it never happened.” My heart does a frantic flutter at the thought, and my hand freezes.
I can’t do it. Slipping it off feels like a lie, but keeping it on feels likes a surrender.
I let out a frustrated breath and snap the ring back down to the base of my finger, where it settles with a heavy, possessive weight.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The harsh vibration of my phone dancing against the glass and brass coffee table sends a violent jolt straight to my nervous system.
I leap out of my skin, gasping as a cold flood of adrenaline surges straight to the pit of my stomach.
My eyes snap to the table. The screen lights up, flashing a name that makes me gasp.
Vik. Viktor Orlov, my boss.
And as my scattered, foggy memories from two night ago aggressively remind me, the best friend of one Dante Lombardi—the man whose ring is currently on my ring finger.
“Oh God.” I tremble, catching my bottom lip between my teeth, worrying the soft skin, biting down hard enough that I can taste the faint metallic tang of iron. I’m panicking, spiraling out of control, and suffocating.
He knows. He has to know. Dante probably called him the second he realized I was gone.
Vik is going to fire me now. No, worse, he’s going to demand to know why his executive assistant flew to Vegas for a conference only to come back legally bound to a man who looks like he owns half the West Coast and moves with lethal precision in a six-figure tailored suit.
I’m going to lose my career, my reputation, and my sanity.
All because I had one too many glasses of champagne and let a devilish smirk destroy my judgment.
The phone vibrates for a third time, on the brink of going to voicemail. I grit my teeth, wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, reach out, and swipe at the screen.
“Hi, Vik.” I force my voice into an octave that sounds halfway professional, despite the fact that my nerves are a frazzled mess.
“Alex.” Vik’s deep measure voice cuts through the speaker. “I was beginning to think you lost your phone.”
“No, sorry, I was putting my luggage away,” I lie smoothly, my grip tightening around the phone. “What’s up?” I ask. While Vik may be married to my best friend, I don’t see him cutting me any slack, and I’m sure a lecture along with a termination speech is on the tip of his tongue.
“Following up on the Vegas convention. Did you manage to secure the deal before you left?” His tone is casual, laced with his businesslike efficiency.
“Yes.” I move to my laptop on the kitchen table. Maybe I forgot to send him the contract. Surely, it’s not in my drafts. I might have had one killer hangover, but I powered through, went over everything before meeting Dante in the bar, and sent off the email.
“Good. Send it over,” he says with a gruffness while rustling some papers on the other end of the line.
“Doing so now. I must have forgotten to hit Send before I got on the plane.” I go through the paces of powering my laptop up and waiting for it to come to life.
The convention feels like it happened a decade ago, in a completely different lifetime.
“There it is. I think you’ll be happy with the terms I negotiated.
Though, he wouldn’t budge on the timeline.
” I’m Alexandria Holland: organized, ambitious, and decidedly single.
“Good work,” Vik says, sounding genuinely pleased. “And precisely why I sent you.” A wave of dizzying relief washes over me and I’m able to slink back to my chair. Vik doesn’t know. Dante hasn’t told him yet.
“I also wanted to make sure you made it back to Seattle safely,” he adds, his voice softening into friendly concern. Romy’s doing, I’m sure.
“I’m back safe and sound. You know how Vegas is. It’s go, go, go, and well, now, I’m exhausted.” A nervous chuckle escapes my throat.
“I do. Get some rest Alex. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Vik. See you then.” The line goes dead. I lower my phone, letting my arm drop to my side, and let out a long, ragged exhale.
He doesn’t know. My job is safe. For now.
I rest my head against the high backrest and stare up at the white ceiling. The relief is short-lived, quickly swallowed up by the darker, more chaotic storm brewing in my mind. I’m still pulling at the frayed threads of my memory, desperately trying to reconstruct the timeline of my downfall.
I remember the convention floor.
I remember the loud, pulsing hotel lounge afterward.
And then… I remember him.
Dante Lombardi.
The realization makes me want to scream into a pillow.
I married a man, signed a legal document, and spent the night wrapped in his arms. Since coming home, fragments of the night have hit me in smoldering hot flashes.
I remember the way he leaned over me, my back to the mattress, his palm planted beside my head, as his broad shoulders crowded me in.
His dark amber eyes skating a path up my naked body and his nostrils flaring at the sight.
And that’s where the memory of the night ends.
I didn’t wait for him to come back. The second I pulled myself together, I packed my suitcase in a frenzy, snuck out of the hotel like a thief in the night, and caught the earliest flight back to Seattle.
Since I’ve landed, my phone has been a battlefield.
Dante called me eleven times, texted me six.
I didn’t answer either. In fact, I muted his name, flipped the phone face down, and when that didn’t work, well, I blocked his number, and now I’m cowered in my apartment like a fugitive hiding from the law.
The thought strikes me with the same force a cold bucket of water would. I stand up, walk over to the window, stare out at the Seattle sky, and of course, the sun would pick that time to shine through the glass. The diamond sparkles, another reminder of the weekend.
“I’m Alexandria Renee Holland,” I say aloud, my voice timid at first. Then I give it some weight.
If I can’t convince myself, how am I going to convince anyone else?
“I don’t hide.” I built a life here, spent years working my ass off to become a respected executive assistant, a woman who is in complete control of her own destiny.
I’m not going to run from a billionaire with dark eyes, dangerous smirks, and panty-dropping dirty words no matter how good he looks shirtless.
“I don’t hide,” I reiterate, even firmer this time, my jaw setting with sheer determination.
“And besides that, I need to talk to Dante and get this damn marriage annulled.” I march back to the chair, snatch my phone from the table, and just as I’m about to unblock his number and call him, I think better of it.
If I’m going to fix it, it’s going to be face to face.
I only need to make sure that when I see him again, I don’t forget how to breathe. How hard could that be?