Alan’s POV

The night should’ve ended hours ago.

But my head was still there — back in that suite, with her.

The woman with the black lace mask and the kind of mouth that ruins a man’s composure.

I told myself it was just a mistake.

A beautiful, reckless, alcohol-laced mistake.

Except it didn’t feel that way.

I could still taste her when I woke up — faintly sweet, dangerously addictive. The bedsheets were a mess, the air heavy, and she was gone. No note. No goodbye. Nothing except a single cufflink missing from my wrist and her scent lingering like a secret I wasn’t supposed to keep.

A.J.

She’d seen the initials, I was sure of it.

I dragged a hand through my hair, still half-dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed like an idiot trying to remember every second before she slipped away.

The way she trembled when I kissed her. The way she said “no names” like she’d meant don’t ever find me.

And maybe I wouldn’t have — if my sister hadn’t decided to storm into my suite uninvited.

“Alan.”

Her voice. Sharp. Familiar. The kind that could cut through any hangover, or in my case, post-sin confusion.

“Jesus, Leah,” I muttered, yanking the sheet up over my chest. “Do you knock?”

“I did.” She crossed her arms, arching one perfect eyebrow. “You just didn’t answer. Again.”

Leah Jean — five minutes younger, five times nosier, and the only person alive who could read me like a bad novel.

She looked around the room — the crumpled suit jacket, the half-empty champagne bottle, the tangled bedsheets — and her eyes narrowed.

“Well,” she said slowly, “someone had fun last night.”

I stood up, reaching for my shirt. “It’s not what it looks like.”

She snorted. “You’re shirtless, your room smells like sin, and there’s lipstick on your neck. Want to try that again?”

I sighed, buttoning my cuffs — well, cuff. The other one was still missing.

“Leah, drop it.”

But she didn’t. She never did.

“Was it someone from the gala?” she asked, following me to the minibar. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with one of those reporters again. Dad nearly had a stroke the last time.”

I ignored her, pouring whiskey instead of answering.

“You did,” she gasped, her tone turning gleeful. “You actually did.”

“Leah.”

She perched on the table, swinging her legs like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. “What’s her name?”

“No names,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

Her grin widened. “She told you that, didn’t she?”

I froze. She saw it instantly.

“Oh my God,” Leah said, eyes sparkling with disbelief. “You actually liked her.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. You so did.”

I turned away, staring at the empty space on the bed where she’d been. “She was… different.”

Leah softened, just a little. “Different how?”

I didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense.

Everything about that woman had been contradiction — her voice calm but her hands shaking, her kiss desperate but careful, her eyes unreadable beneath that mask.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like Alan Jean — son of a mogul, name worth headlines, billionaire in training.

I’d just been a man. And she’d looked at me like that was enough.

Leah was watching me too closely. “Alan,” she said slowly, “promise me you used protection.”

I shot her a look. “Leah.”

“I’m serious. You have a terrible record with choices you make when drunk and sentimental.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

That silenced her. “Then what’s your excuse?”

“Maybe I didn’t want one.”

She tilted her head. “So what, now you’re falling for a stranger?”

“I’m not falling,” I muttered. “I’m… curious.”

“Curious?”

“About why I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Leah rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of concern there. “You really are hopeless.”

“Thanks, sis.”

“I mean it. You get attached to people who disappear on you. It’s like a pattern.”

I leaned against the counter, smirking faintly. “You psychoanalyzing me again?”

“Someone has to. Mom says therapy didn’t stick.”

That earned a short laugh from me — the first one since sunrise. “Remind me why I keep you around.”

“Because without me,” she said sweetly, “you’d have burned down your reputation by now.”

“Assuming I have one left.”

“You do. Barely.”

I turned the glass in my hand, the amber liquid catching the light. “She didn’t even look back, you know? Most people do. They hesitate. She just… left.”

Leah frowned. “Maybe that’s what you liked.”

“Maybe.”

For a second, everything went still again. My mind replayed the sound of her voice — soft, unsure, but trying so hard to sound brave.

I’d met hundreds of women. None of them had felt like that.

Leah finally sighed. “Fine. Keep your mystery woman. But if Dad hears about this, I was never here.”

“Deal.”

She started toward the door, then paused, glancing at the lone cufflink still gleaming on the table. “You’re missing one.”

“I noticed.”

She raised a brow. “Planning to find it?”

“Planning to forget it.”

“Right.” Her smirk said she didn’t believe that for a second.

After she left, the room fell quiet again — the kind of quiet that forces you to feel everything you’re trying to avoid.

I stared at the cufflink for a long time.

Then I laughed under my breath — low, humorless.

She could keep it.

Whoever she was.

But something deep down told me the story wasn’t finished.

Because no matter how hard I tried, every time I blinked, I saw her.

The mystery. The mask. The way her breath caught when I touched her.

And I didn’t know her name.

But I had a feeling I wouldn’t need it to find her again.

Ashley's POV

A week. That's how long it took for me to almost forget the stranger from the gala.

Almost.

He'd become a ghost stitched between my thoughts. A whisper when I closed my eyes. A burn I couldn't name. But I buried it - deep - because the last thing I needed was another secret in a family built on them.

The Walters and the Jeans weren't just rivals. We were blood-feud royalty.

Two empires carved out of the same ruthless industry - media and power - forever trying to outshine, outbuy, or outright destroy each other.

And yet, here I was, walking into a boardroom lined with both family crests. The meeting my father had called historic.

The irony burned.

My heels clicked against the marble floor as I followed him inside. Reporters weren't allowed, but tension was. It filled every inch of the room like smoke.

Marcus Walter - my father - stood at the head of the table, his expression cut from steel.

Opposite him was Charles Jean - Alan's father - wearing the same smug smirk I'd seen on magazine covers since I was old enough to read.

And beside him stood him.

Alan Jean.

Tall. Composed. Dangerous in that quiet, self-assured way that made people listen.

There was something about his presence that dragged the air tighter.

For a moment, I thought my pulse misfired.

No. Impossible.

He wasn't the man from that night. He couldn't be.

That man was faceless, voiceless, hidden behind a silver mask and darkness.

This one was all sharp lines and power. Untouchable.

So why did something deep in me recognize him - the shape of his jaw, the way he stood, even the faint scar near his collarbone that his open cuff revealed?

I forced myself to breathe and sat beside my father, pretending calm while chaos bloomed in my chest.

"Let's get one thing straight," my father began, his tone clipped. "This partnership isn't personal. It's business. The press will see it as reconciliation, but it's a calculated alliance. Nothing more."

Charles Jean smiled thinly. "Call it what you want, Marcus. The world will still talk."

The air tightened. Across from me, Alan's gaze flicked up. For a heartbeat, our eyes met - dark and unreadable. Then he looked away like I didn't exist.

Good.

That made one of us pretending well.

Leah Jean, his twin sister, sat beside him, watching everything with quiet amusement.

I could tell she didn't trust us - or maybe she just enjoyed the tension.

"So," Leah said lightly, "how do you plan to make this work without killing each other?"

I smiled politely. "Maybe we'll just kill the competition instead."

Her eyes glinted. "Same difference."

The conversation shifted to contracts, percentages, and projected revenue - words that filled the room but couldn't drown the undercurrent of old hatred.

Halfway through, my phone buzzed under the table. Richard.

I ignored it.

He'd been calling all week, his apologies more exhausting than his silence. I didn't want to talk about him. Not today.

Not when my focus was already slipping every time Alan spoke.

His voice - calm, low, steady - had a weight that drew attention. He spoke like someone used to being obeyed, and I hated that it made me listen.

When the presentation ended, our fathers rose simultaneously.

"Let's make it official," my father said. "A symbolic handshake. Our next generation leading the charge."

I froze.

Surely, he didn't mean-

He did.

Alan stood across the room, already extending his hand.

For the cameras that weren't even here. For the illusion of peace.

I pushed my chair back and stood, legs barely steady beneath my calm.

I reached out.

His hand closed over mine - firm, warm, electric. And then I saw it.

The cufflink.

Silver. Sleek. Polished.

Engraved with two letters.

A.J.

The same letters I'd seen that morning after the gala. The same ones I'd turned over in my fingers, trying to erase from my memory.

The room blurred. My breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't.

I forced myself not to move, not to flinch, not to let the realization shatter across my face.

Because standing here - smiling for our fathers, pretending for the cameras that weren't here - I realized something that made my skin crawl and my heart race at once.

The masked stranger I'd given myself to wasn't a nobody.

He was Alan Jean.

The enemy.

And as his thumb brushed the edge of my wrist, his eyes flicked down - just once - to the tattoo he'd traced that night.

His expression didn't change, but I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the faint tremor in his grip.

He knew too.

And neither of us could say a word.

The room erupted in applause - fake, polite, rehearsed - as our fathers shook hands like history hadn't just twisted itself into something cruel.

I smiled for the illusion, my pulse thundering behind my ribs.

Alan's fingers lingered for half a second longer before he let go.

That brief touch burned hotter than any sin I'd committed.

And in that moment, I knew one thing for sure -

This wasn't over.

This was only the beginning.

Alan's POV

If hell had chandeliers, they'd look like this boardroom.

Gold, gleaming, expensive - and utterly suffocating. The Walters were seated opposite us, the tension so sharp you could hear it hum beneath the polite laughter.

I'd been to dozens of business meetings, but never one where I couldn't breathe.

Not because of the deal. Because of her.

Ashley Walter. A name that carried legacy, control, and the kind of family my father spent decades trying to destroy.

I'd told myself to treat her like any other corporate pawn.

But the moment she walked in, the world tilted. Her perfume hit first - faint, familiar.

Then the way she carried herself - calm, precise, almost cold.

The meeting dragged on for an hour. Numbers, proposals, projections - all noise. I didn't hear a damn word.

All I could think about was the way her eyes had flicked to my wrist when I sat down. The way her breath had caught when our gazes locked.

When our fathers finally called for the "symbolic handshake," I almost laughed. Symbolic? Try catastrophic. She approached like she was walking into a battlefield. Calm on the outside, chaos beneath.

She stopped in front of me, just close enough that I could smell that same faint trace of perfume - the one that had ruined my self-control the first time.

Her hand slid into mine.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

And for a second, time folded.

The boardroom dissolved. The chatter vanished. All I could see was her - the same woman in that dim suite, pressed against me, whispering "no names."

The heat that surged between us now was quieter, but sharper. Dangerous.

Her pulse raced beneath my thumb as I held her hand, and then - I saw it.

The tattoo.

That crescent-shaped mark inked on her wrist. The one I'd kissed without knowing it would haunt me later.

It brushed against my palm, and the air went thin.

She looked up at me, eyes wide but unreadable, every secret screaming behind them.

She knew.

I knew.

And neither of us could breathe.

Applause. Cameras. Smiles. Lies.

Our fathers were shaking hands, congratulating themselves for uniting two dynasties built on ruin.

I forced a smile for the cameras, the kind that didn't touch my eyes.

Every flash of light felt like it was burning that secret into my skin.

Leah, beside me, leaned in with that knowing glint. "You're awfully quiet."

"Just tired," I said, keeping my tone flat.

"Hmm." She studied me for a moment. "You hate being here, but somehow, I don't think that's why."

I didn't answer.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might've said her name - the name I wasn't supposed to know.

The speeches went on. The older men talked about legacy, progress, and "a new era of partnership." It sounded noble to anyone who didn't know how much blood these families had shed to get here.

Ashley didn't say much. She didn't need to. She sat there, perfect posture, flawless composure, her eyes fixed on the contract in front of her as if the ink might start bleeding secrets.

I couldn't stop looking at her hands. The same hands that had once pulled me closer now clenched around a pen, hiding that mark like she knew it was dangerous.

When it was finally over, she stood. Smiling politely, shaking a few hands, doing the performance she'd been born into.

I should've looked away. I didn't.

She turned to leave, and for a moment, I let her go.

Then her gaze dropped - just once - to my wrist.

The cufflink gleamed in the light.

A.J.

Her lips parted slightly. Just a flicker - but it was there.

Recognition. Shock.

And for a fraction of a second, I saw the mask slip. The perfect daughter, the polished heiress - gone.

What was left was the woman I'd held in the dark, now standing under crystal lights, pretending she didn't remember the shape of my voice.

She blinked, hiding it fast, and turned away.

Our secret - the one night that was never meant to exist - had just followed us into daylight.

The irony almost made me laugh. Out of all the women in this damn city, I'd fallen into bed with the enemy's daughter.

And now we were partners.

The headlines tomorrow would talk about legacy and collaboration, about how two powerful families were finally setting aside their pride.

But none of them would know the truth.

That beneath every handshake, every smile, every carefully spoken promise - there was history. Bitterness. And now, a secret that could burn it all down.

Leah nudged me again. "You okay?"

I didn't look at her. "Yeah."

But my gaze stayed on the door Ashley had just walked through.

She was gone. But the scent lingered. The memory stayed. And the imprint of her touch refused to fade.

For years, our families had fought over money, contracts, power.

Now it was different.

This wasn't just business anymore.

It was personal.

And one of us would burn before it was over.