The sunlight seared through the curtains, stabbing into my skull like a thousand tiny daggers. My head pounded, the aftermath of too much alcohol and too little self-control. My body ached, but not in pain—in the lingering scent of last night's pleasure. I stretched my hand across the bed, feeling the cold, empty space beside me.
She was gone.
I sat up too fast, the room spinning for a moment before settling into place. The sheets still carried her scent—a mix of something sweet and forbidden. I ran a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath.
Who the hell was she?
I had spent the entire night tangled in her arms, lost in a haze of pleasure and mystery. Her masked face still haunted me, her voice, soft yet commanding, a whisper in my ears. And those eyes—light green, like the ocean on a stormy day.
A knock at the door made me flinch.
"Sir, your father is waiting for you in the main hall," my assistant, Daniel, called from the other side.
I groaned. Right. My engagement.
Guilt gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I shoved it aside. I had never even met my fiancée before, and this marriage was nothing but a business transaction. It wasn't betrayal if there was no love in the first place.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was… off.
I showered quickly, letting the water wash away the remnants of last night's sins. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't erase the memory of her hands on my skin, the way she had taken control, leaving me breathless, wrecked, and desperate for more.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, I made my way downstairs. The mansion was buzzing with excitement. Servants rushed around, setting up decorations, arranging fresh flowers—celebrating a union I had no say in. As if last night wasn't torture enough.
My father, Alexander Kingsley Sr., stood near the fireplace, his expression unreadable. "You're late," he muttered, swirling a glass of whiskey.
I ignored him, my eyes scanning the room.
Then, I saw her.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
No.
It couldn't be.
The woman standing next to my father was dressed in an elegant white dress, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, and when she turned to face me—
Light green eyes.
The world tilted. My throat dried. My eyes stung.
She stared back at me with an unsettling calm, as if she weren't the same woman who had been moaning my name just hours ago. As if she hadn't left me wrecked and obsessed.
"Ashton, meet your fiancée, Isabella Devereaux," my father announced.
My fiancée.
The woman I had slept with.
The masked stranger who had vanished before dawn.
Isabella lifted her chin, her lips curving into the smallest, most dangerous smirk I had ever seen.
"Pleasure to finally meet you," she said, her voice smooth, controlled.
I had been played.
And for the first time in my life, I had no idea what the hell to do about it.