Isla’s stomach was twisted in knots on her first wedding night.

After her shower, she dried her hair and slipped into the slinky nightgown someone had laid out for her. Soft amber light gilded her stunning features, turning her beauty into something you couldn’t look away from if you tried. The sound of the shower still running in the bathroom pulled her mind back—five years with Vicente, four of them long distance. Now he was finally back, here to marry her.

She squeezed the nearly sheer fabric of her nightgown between her fingers, her heart hammering against her ribs. A ping from a phone on the table yanked her attention away. When she unlocked it, a jolt of surprise went through her—her own face stared back from the lock screen. She’d grabbed Vicente’s phone by mistake.

Vicente had given her all his passwords. The day he got his new phone, he’d added her fingerprint right away. He always said trust was everything, swore he’d never keep a single secret from her.

Just before she set it down, a new message popped up from someone named “Lilith.” Isla knew almost everyone from his design studio, but that name didn’t ring a bell. Even though she trusted Vicente, something in her gut pushed her to open it.

[Lilith: Vicente, I finally nailed that spiced honey cake you taught me! Aren’t I the best?]

Attached was a photo: a young woman in a tiny pink skirt, wearing cat ears, a smudge of cream right on the tip of her nose.

The words “spiced honey cake” sent cold shivers racing down Isla’s spine. That was her favorite dessert. The one Vicente used to make to wow her, always cutting strawberries into little bunnies just for her. The cake in the photo looked exactly like the ones he’d made for her.

Ice spread through Isla’s entire body. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through the chat thread. There wasn’t much here—Vicente must have deleted all their old messages before he came home.

Tapping into Lilith’s profile, Isla saw almost every post was about Vicente: him passed out at his desk after overtime, their trips to the amusement park, sunrise hikes and sunset drives.

The worst blow? The birthday necklace Vicente had given Isla? Lilith had picked it out. The comments spelled it all out: Vicente and Lilith weren’t officially dating, but they were in that messy, vague in-between that meant anything could happen.

Suddenly, Isla got it. The perfect, pure relationship she’d thought she had? Lilith had been in it this whole time.

The shower cut off.

Isla hesitated only a few seconds, then typed back three words: You’re amazing.

[Lilith: That’s just ‘cause Vicente is the best teacher ever! What took you so long to reply? You gonna ignore your little sis now that you’ve got a fiancee? 😠]

Isla saw right through her little game. If this was actually Vicente texting back, he’d sweet-talk her and smooth everything over just like she wanted.

She set the phone down, tossed the still-sealed box of condoms into the trash, slipped on a sharp black wool coat, shoved her feet into heels, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door.

The crisp bite of early winter wrapped around her as she stood under a streetlamp, watching dry leaves spin in the wind.

Looking back over the past year, Vicente had been good to her, no question. No matter how crazy his schedule got, he’d fly across half the world just to surprise her on her birthday. He’d remember when she was feeling under the weather, have a heating pad and her favorite coffee waiting before she even asked. Even with the time difference, he’d always pick up the phone, warm and concerned, every single time she called.

But he’d still hidden Lilith from her. He’d chosen to lie by omission, knowing full well what it would cost her if she found out.

Her phone rang. The caller ID said “Husband”—a name Vicente had changed it to himself. He’d rambled nonstop about moving back to marry her as fast as possible, wanted to claim his place so no other guy would dare make a move.

Isla thought back to Lilith’s post the day of her birthday. She’d blown out her candles, turned to find Vicente shoving his phone in his pocket, said it was just work. Now it made sense.

When she’d been sick in bed, Vicente had sat right next to her holding her hand, and colleagues were commenting on Lilith’s posts that even with Vicente overseas, she still had all his attention.

All the signs had been right in front of her. She’d just been too happy to look.

Right before the call went to voicemail, Isla answered, forcing her voice to sound normal. “Hey.”

Vicente’s voice was still warm, just like always: “Babe, where are you?”

She couldn’t stop thinking—he probably used that same soft, affectionate tone with Lilith every single day.

Emotional betrayal eats at you far worse than just physical cheating.

Isla’s voice was steady when she answered: “Something came up at work, I have to come in for overtime.”

Vicente knew how demanding her job at Damari Evans’s company was, so he didn’t question her excuse. “Sweetheart, just quit. Let me take care of you.”

Isla’s first instinct was to snap: What about Lilith? But she bit it back. She was twenty-three, old enough to know better than to fly off the handle. She didn’t need to yell, or fight, or grill him. The proof was right there, plain as day, no room for him to argue or deny it.

Keeping her voice calm, she said, “I haven’t made a decision about quitting yet, Vicente.”

Using his full name caught him totally off guard. “Isla, you…”

She cut him off. “Goodbye.”

Ending it fast is the mature way to handle it when your heart’s breaking.

The shift in her tone didn’t go unnoticed. Vicente was left stunned, confusion clouding his handsome face. When he glanced down, the unopened condom box peeking out of the trash caught his eye.

His fingers flew across the screen, opening WhatsApp. The top message was to Lilith, and right under the last text Lilith sent… was the reply “You’re amazing.” It wasn’t his. One click, and everything clicked into place.

Panic sliced through Vicente’s chest as he frantically pulled up Isla’s profile to beg her to talk. Only to find his messages bounced—she’d blocked him.

Calling her was useless. She’d blacklisted his number entirely.

Meanwhile, Isla had left the hotel and ended up standing outside her office building. She walked inside on autopilot, like her feet knew where to go even if her brain couldn’t think straight.

The chaos of the day had faded, and the office was dead quiet at this hour. Alone in the hallway, Isla slid down the wall to the floor, biting down hard on her sleeve to muffle her sobs.

Five years of loving someone doesn’t just disappear overnight. Saying it hurt was the understatement of the century. She’d been afraid of love once, and Vicente had talked her into trusting again. Even across thousands of miles, he’d filled her head with promises, with dreams of a life together, of marriage.

She’d convinced herself he was different from all the other rich, privileged guys. But in the end? He was just the same as all the rest.

The sharp click of a lighter cut through the silence. Isla hadn’t expected anyone else to be here this late.

Her back went cold when she turned. A tall shadow leaned against the window.

The flicker of the flame danced across his sharp, striking features—high straight nose, a jawline you could cut glass on.

He held a cigarette between his lips, his voice low and unreadable, when he spoke: “Why are you crying?”

It made total sense that he was here. Evans Corporation had built its reputation as the most cutthroat firm in the city, and that was all thanks to Damari Evans—this was a man who lived and breathed overtime.

Isla Turner felt a cold chill race down her spine. It was the same jolt you get when you get caught red-handed dumping boiling water on your neighbor’s prize rose bush.

"Mr. Evans, I’m so sorry for interrupting..."

The sharp tension from earlier melted away as he walked toward her, his features swallowed by shadow.

Damari tilted his head down to look at her. "Can you tell me why you’re crying?"

Isla answered honestly, "I broke up with my boyfriend, Mr. Evans. Don’t worry, it won’t mess with my work."

Standing there in the light, every raw emotion she felt was laid bare under his unwavering stare.

"Come with me," Damari said. "We’re going somewhere."

Isla’s eyes were still glistening, her brain still spinning from the breakup. Part of her couldn’t believe he’d actually demand she work at a time like this. But she pulled herself together fast, wiped her tears away, and slipped right back into her usual calm composure. She stood, straight and steady. "Yes, Mr. Evans."

When the elevator doors slid open, he stepped inside. Isla followed right on his heels. The golden mirrored walls of the elevator caught their reflections, holding them up for the dim light to see.

Even this late at night, he looked perfectly put together. His suit didn’t have a single wrinkle, and you could feel the high quality of the fabric even in the low glow. To be honest, Damari’s jaw-dropping good looks were probably the least interesting thing about him. Isla had never met anyone who pulled off effortless elegance in every little move he made like he did.

In the mirror, her puffy red eyes locked with his cold, distant gaze. He hadn’t even touched her, but just being this close to him made her breath catch in her throat.

Damari caught her staring. "Tonight is personal," he said. "I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend while I see someone. If you’re not down for it, you can say no. No hard feelings."

Isla assumed they were meeting a business contact. She trusted Damari, and she was still reeling from her breakup anyway—so she agreed without a second thought. "I’m okay with it."

Down in the underground parking garage, the usual driver and Madison Walker were nowhere to be found. So Isla headed for the back door, instinct kicking in to take her usual assistant spot.

Damari stepped right past her and slid into the driver’s seat instead. Isla’s stomach flipped. "Mr. Evans, is there something wrong with how I drive...?"

"Nothing’s wrong. Just sit in the passenger seat."

His voice held that natural, unshakable authority that you just don’t argue with.

A messy mix of nervousness and obligation tangled in her chest as she opened the passenger door. When she slipped in, the glow of the parking lot lights caught her slender, shapely legs, accentuated by her sleek black heels.

Damari darted a quick glance her way before looking back ahead. "Seatbelt," he reminded her.

Isla sat straight as a pin, on edge. She figured the usually unflappable man was just worried she’d have a full-on meltdown over her broken heart.

Once they merged onto the busy main road, the inside of the car filled with a faint leather scent—clean, rich, just like the crisp smell of a brand new book.

Damari snuck a sidelong look at the woman beside him. Her legs were pressed tightly together, her hands clasped tight around her seatbelt. Her glowing, pretty face still held the faint pink puffiness around her eyes, her lips pursed. She was less composed than usual… and far more vulnerable.

She looked like a perfectly crafted porcelain doll: delicate, easy to break, impossible to look away from.

Neither of them spoke. He didn’t ask why she’d broken up with her boyfriend, and she didn’t ask where they were going.

Before long, the sleek black Maybach pulled up to a private clinic.

As soon as they parked, Isla was on instinct, bouncing out to open Damari’s door like she’d been trained to do.

"Mr. Evans, what do you need me to do?" she asked. The thought of meeting someone important had her nerves spiking.

He stood with his back to the streetlamp, the evening glow wrapping around him, his expression unreadable. "Just stay by my side," he said calmly. "You’ll be fine."

Isla nodded, and noticed Damari holding his arm out to her. He didn’t say a word, just waited, looking right at her.

It clicked a second later, and she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

Even through the layers of fabric, she could faintly feel the hard, firm muscle under his tailored suit.

Side by side, they walked into the clinic under the dark night sky, to meet an elderly gentleman waiting inside.

The old man looked a little frail, but he radiated a quiet, gentle warmth.

"Grandpa," Damari said. "I brought someone to meet you."

Isla’s breath caught. She’d had no idea they were coming to see his family!

The old man pushed his glasses up his nose and looked up at Isla. "Damari, who is this lovely young lady?"

Before Isla could even collect her thoughts to answer, Damari laced his fingers through hers and said clearly, "Isla. My girlfriend."

Damari’s warm hand wrapped around hers, firm and steadying. His words sent a little ripple through her heart, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Even knowing it was all just an act, she’d never dared imagine being linked to someone this untouchable, this out of her league.

He gave her hand a soft tap, a quiet reminder that didn’t push her too far. "This is my grandfather," he said.

Isla snapped out of her little daze and smiled politely, introducing herself. "Hello, sir. I’m Isla."

The old man grinned at Damari. "What are you standing around for? Get this girl a chair!"

Flustered, Isla shook her head. "No, really, I don’t need—"

Damari set a soft padded chair right behind her. "Sit," he ordered, short and clear.

Damari was a totally different person around his grandfather than he was at the office. Here, he was courteous, respectful… even a little more chatty.

Isla didn’t have much to do other than sit quiet beside them, listening to the usually sharp, all-business man make small talk.

"So how long have you two been together?"

"What took you so long to bring her around to meet me?"

Damari glanced at the woman beside him, none of that cold, detached formality he brought to work showing on his face.

Isla sat there straight like a schoolgirl, legs pressed together, and her face flushed bright with embarrassment.

Her pale skin turned pink, the red heat crawling all the way from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

Damari turned back to his grandfather and gave a simple answer. "I’m just a little shy," he said.

Isla’s ears burned even hotter. To distract herself from the awkwardness, she took a bite of the spiced honey cake on the plate in front of her.

The old man watched them both, then asked casually, "So Isla, when are you two planning to tie the knot?"

The word marriage hit her like a shock, and she choked on her cake. "M-marriage?"

Her boss had only asked her to fake being his girlfriend, not fake an engagement!

Damari didn’t even flinch. "We’ll talk about that later," he answered smoothly.

The old man took Damari’s hand, his voice earnest. "Damari, I don’t have much time left. My only last wish is to see you settled and happy before I go. Can you do this for me?"

Damari lowered his gaze, hiding his expression from Isla. A heavy, thick silence settled over the room, and Isla barely dared to breathe.

Back in the car, Damari hesitated before turning the key in the ignition.

Sensing how alone he felt in that moment, Isla spoke up on instinct. "Mr. Evans, let me drive."

Otherwise, she felt like she’d be walking on eggshells the whole ride in the passenger seat.

The windows were up, cutting off all the noise from the street outside. Trapped in this quiet, closed space, Isla’s heart felt like it was floating, unmoored and uncertain. She didn’t dare push him, didn’t dare ask questions, just let the moments slip by like sand through an hourglass.

Damari’s voice was still calm, but it rang in Isla’s ears like when the professor calls your name unexpectedly in a lecture hall. She almost jumped up to answer.

"Mr. Evans?" she said, uneasy, twisting the edge of her trench coat between her nervous fingers.

She was half-worried her little crying breakdown at the office had broken some unwritten rule, and she was about to get fired.

Damari turned his gaze to her, his face steady. "I have a proposition for you," he said.

Relieved it wasn’t a pink slip she was getting, Isla’s tense shoulders slowly relaxed. "What kind of proposition?"

Isla Turner got why Damari Evans wanted to grant his grandfather’s dying wish. But with a hundred women throwing themselves at him every day… why her? Just a regular personal assistant.

She asked the question out loud: "Why me?"

"I’m not interested," Isla replied without a beat of hesitation.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Damari’s dark eyes, gone so fast Isla couldn’t pin it down before it vanished. He answered coolly, "That’s exactly why."

It clicked for Isla. Damari was a total workaholic who couldn’t be bothered with messy romance. Marrying someone obsessed with him would just suck up half his time. He didn’t want a real family—he just wanted a convenient marriage to keep his grandpa happy.

It made total sense, given how he was. Isla didn’t even think it was weird. She got it.

"Mr. Evans, I’m still not the right pick for this."

Her refusal didn’t faze him. He kept going, voice steady: "Three-year marriage contract. You play the good granddaughter-in-law for me, and I’ll give you whatever compensation you want. Money, connections, resources—name what you need, as long as I can give it to you."

The word resources hit her like a punch to the chest, and suddenly her little brother Mack’s too-pale face flashed through her mind. She hesitated.

Her parents had always favored boys over girls, and Mack had been their whole world. But even as a kid, Mack would sneak his favorite candy to Isla and tell everyone she was his favorite sister. On crisp, cold autumn afternoons, he’d wrap his arms around her from behind on their porch and promise he’d buy her a huge house one day, so she’d never have to huddle and shiver in the cold again.

This little brother, the one who’d warmed every lonely part of her childhood, had come down with kidney disease. After years of draining treatment, her parents had given up on him and had another boy instead. For years now, it had just been Isla and Mack against the world—she was the one carrying all the weight of his illness.

"Your brother needs dialysis three times a week. That’s a massive financial burden for most people. And if a matching kidney comes up? The surgery alone will run you close to a hundred grand."

Isla’s fingers tightened around her purse strap until her knuckles went white with every word he spoke.

"I can cover all of his surgery and recovery costs. And I can find you a donor."

Isla’s head snapped up, and her gaze collided with Damari’s. His eyes felt like they could see straight through every wall she’d put up.

He added, quiet and certain: "I can make him better."

Those six words were a lighthouse cutting through the black fog that’d swallowed her whole for months.

When she’d been dating Vicente Wood, she’d never breathed a word about Mack’s illness. She didn’t want to drag their relationship down with that kind of heavy baggage.

Just recently, a matching kidney had been found. The doctor told her to come up with thirty thousand dollars for the surgery and hospital stay, and that didn’t even count post-op care and meds. She’d already planned to take out a loan to cover it.

But on the exact same day she’d broken up with Vicente, Damari had offered her a deal she couldn’t afford to walk away from.

When she stayed silent, he probably took it as indecision. His voice softened, just a little: "Or are you planning to get back together with him? If that’s the case, just consider this me overstepping."

"I’m not," Isla answered immediately, sharp and decisive.

To other people, Vicente hadn’t done anything unforgivable. He hadn’t even physically cheated. Why was she so dead-set on throwing away a years-long relationship over something that seemed so small?

Only Isla knew how much she’d cared about that relationship. Even when she had plenty of admirers who could’ve easily handed her thirty thousand dollars (and more) if she’d just asked, she’d kept her distance and never breathed a word about how desperate she was. Three months ago, someone had slipped her a drug at a work event. She’d sliced her palm open on a broken glass just to stay conscious, then climbed down a drainpipe off a third-floor balcony to escape. Hiding under a bridge, bruised and bleeding, she’d called Vicente who was overseas for work, and she’d just casually said she was fine. She never told him she’d almost been assaulted.

He’d promised when he came back they’d get married, and Isla had believed him. She’d thought they were already acting like a married couple, even long-distance.

But reality was nothing like that. When he wasn’t with Isla, he was out celebrating his coworker Lilith’s birthday, watching fireworks with her at Disneyland, going to movie premieres together, chasing sunrises and sunsets side by side.

Even if Vicente still loved her, even if they got married—marriage wasn’t the finish line. It was just the start. Sooner or later, he’d regret it. His feelings for her would fizzle out in the boring, messy grind of daily life, and he’d probably keep seeing Lilith on the side anyway.

None of that was what Isla wanted. Lilith would always be a thorn stuck in her chest, throbbing and hurting no matter what she did.

Vicente was probably better than most guys. But Isla had given a hundred percent of herself to that relationship, and Vicente had only ever given eighty. That imbalance would kill their marriage eventually, no matter what.

Isla was more mature and practical than most girls her age. It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. If she couldn’t get a hundred percent pure, whole marriage even after putting everything on the line, she’d take a marriage that was just good for both of us instead.

Her resolve solidified. She looked up at him and said, "Mr. Evans, I agree."

He turned the car key, the engine purring to life. "Alright. Where’s your passport?"

Isla blinked, caught off guard. "It’s at my place, you…"

"I’ll drive you to get it, then we head straight to the registry office."

"It’s so late, they’ll be closed. Can’t we do tomorrow?" Isla’s head was still spinning—this was all happening so fast, she couldn’t keep up.

Damari pressed his foot to the gas, leaving her staring at his sharp, determined profile. "I’ll make the arrangements."

He drove her to her apartment building. To save every extra penny for Mack’s treatment, she lived in a dump without an elevator.

"Mr. Evans, just wait here for me. I’ll run up and grab it."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving his sleek black Mercedes and his tall, broad frame standing out under the yellow streetlight like they didn’t belong here at all.

He followed her anyway. "This place doesn’t look safe."

Isla’s brain went totally blank for a second, and the words slipped out before she could stop them: "It’s not just looks. It actually is dangerous."

She froze, startled by her own bluntness, and hurried to backtrack: "Mr. Evans, I mean—it’s not that bad."

Damari watched her flustered, fumbling explanation with quiet curiosity as he followed her up the creaky stairs, a faint, unspoken smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Isla unlocked her front door and awkwardly gestured over her shoulder: "Just give me one minute. I’ll be right back out."

He stood tall in her doorway, radiating that untouchable, commanding energy that always surrounded him. Vicente had never even set foot in this place. Damari was the first man to ever come inside her home.

Isla grabbed her passport and ID in a hurry, didn’t even stop to change her shoes. Damari glanced around the small space. Her living room was tiny, but it was neat and cozy, warm and lived-in.

A minute later, she was holding the documents out to him. "Mr. Evans, we can go now."

He pulled his gaze away from the framed photo of her and Mack on the counter, voice calm as ever: "Alright."

Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to the registry office. The staff had all been called in to work overtime, but not a single one looked annoyed. They greeted them with crisp, professional smiles: "Mr. Evans, everything’s ready for you."

After photos, forms, and the final stamp, Isla was standing outside holding her marriage certificate in her hands, still half-convinced she was dreaming.

On the exact same night she’d broken up with Vicente, her long-term boyfriend, she’d married her cold, untouchable boss.

On the drive back, Damari glanced at the certificate tucked in his glove compartment, his face still impassive. "The money will hit your account tomorrow. I’ll also start moving on finding that kidney donor right away."

Hearing that, a sharp, bitter twist pinched at Isla’s chest. It felt like she’d just sold herself to pay for her brother’s treatment. But this was her choice. She didn’t regret it.

"Mr. Evans, my doctor told me a few days ago they already found a matching donor. So you don’t have to stress about that part. It’s just…" She hesitated, then blurted it out: "The surgery and hospital fee is thirty thousand."

"Mr. Evans, you can just drop me off here. I’ll take a cab back to my place."

Instead, the car glided smoothly into the underground garage of a fancy five-star hotel a few blocks from Damari’s office. Isla hadn’t seen this coming, but the passenger door was already swinging open before she could protest.

"You’ll stay here tonight. It’s way closer to the office. Your commute from that apartment is ridiculous."

Every refusal she’d rehearsed died on her tongue when she met his sharp, penetrating gaze. She just nodded: "Thank you, Mr. Evans."

"Get some rest," he said, then pulled the door shut and walked off toward the elevators.

The suite was toasty warm from every direction. Isla was so exhausted from the night’s chaos that her legs almost gave out the second the door clicked shut behind her.

She unbuttoned her coat, heat flooding her cheeks when she remembered the thin, semi-sheer black lace slip her friend had forced her to pack for the work trip last week, clinging to every curve of her body.

She stared at the slip in the mirror over the dresser and huffed a dry, wry laugh at herself.

She headed to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and grabbed the plush bathrobe hung up on the hook by the shower.

She assumed it was just the standard hotel issue for guests, so she slipped it on without a second thought.

It was way bigger than a regular hotel bathrobe. At five foot six, Isla looked like she’d borrowed her dad’s robe, swallowing her whole.

The doorbell rang, and she assumed it was room service dropping off a complimentary welcome treat. She opened the door without even bothering to tie the belt tighter.

Damari was standing there, still in his tailored work suit.

His gaze dropped straight to her, and he didn’t look away. What she didn’t know was that this suite was his regular permanent executive suite—everything here was custom-made for him, including that oversized robe she was wearing.

Seeing his personal robe wrapped around her soft, still-damp body, her fresh-washed hair falling loose over her shoulders, water droplets tracing down her delicate collarbone and disappearing into the folds of the fabric… something deep and low stirred in his chest.

The ill-fitting robe gaped open at the top, just enough to show the flush of her skin still warm from the shower steam.