My Fake Husband Is A Ruthless CEO

The heavy oak door to suite 1802 groaned open under Aliana Hunt's trembling hand. A blast of chilled air from the hallway did nothing to cool the unnatural fire raging beneath her skin. She leaned against the doorframe, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

Her fingers, shaking uncontrollably, fumbled against the wall, searching for a light switch. The smooth, cool surface offered no purchase, no familiar toggle. The room remained a cavern of absolute darkness.

From the depths of the black, a low, masculine voice murmured, deep and resonant, clearly on a phone call.

Jairo.

Relief, weak but present, trickled through her. She pushed off the frame, her legs feeling like lead, and staggered toward the sound of his voice.

Benedict Hays stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering skyline of Sterling Bay a distant, silent witness. The voice of his grandfather, Cornelius, crackled with impatience through the phone. "A suitable match, Benedict. That's all I ask. The family requires stability."

A faint sound behind him-a soft, shuffling footstep, a sharp intake of breath-pricked his awareness. He turned, his body moving with a predator's silent efficiency.

Aliana's knees gave out. The world tilted, a dizzying spiral of black on black, and she pitched forward into the void.

Strong arms shot out, catching her with a solid, bracing force. She was enveloped in the scent of expensive cologne and clean linen, a scent that was utterly wrong. This wasn't Jairo.

Her brain screamed an alarm, a frantic, clanging bell of terror. She tried to push away, but her limbs refused to obey. The drug had turned her muscles to water, her protest into a faint, helpless murmur against a chest as hard as granite.

Benedict's jaw tightened. The sweet, cloying scent rising from her skin was unmistakable-a potent, high-grade aphrodisiac. He clamped a hand around her slender wrist, his grip firm and unyielding, stopping her weak struggles.

"Is that a woman I hear?" Cornelius's voice boomed from the phone, suddenly alight with glee. "Did you finally take my advice, boy?"

Benedict's face was a mask of cold fury. He ended the call without a word.

The air in the room was thick, heavy, pressing in on Aliana. A flicker of unease, sharp and inexplicable, shot through her drugged haze-a primal fear of being trapped, of the dark closing in. The hotel corridor, the dense silence-it stirred something deep and nameless beneath the chemical fog, a ghost of old terror she couldn't grasp. She clawed at the collar of her dress, a desperate, animalistic motion. A small, pearlescent button popped free, the tiny sound echoing in the oppressive silence like a gunshot.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, charged with a dangerous, electric current.

He tried to steer her toward the vague outline of a leather sofa, to put some distance between them. But she clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his suit jacket as if he were the only solid thing in a collapsing universe. Her body molded against his, soft and pliant, her desperation a tangible force that blocked his retreat.

Their combined weight sent them tumbling backward. Benedict's back hit the arm of the sofa with a muffled thud, a grunt of pain forced from his lips.

Aliana, lost in a fog of chemical-induced haze, buried her face in the curve of his neck. Her breath, hot and sweet, ghosted over the sensitive skin above his pulse point. The steady, rhythmic beat of his own heart began to falter, to accelerate into a frantic, unfamiliar cadence.

His control, usually an iron fortress, began to show cracks.

He reached for the glass of ice water on the coffee table, a last, desperate attempt to shock her back to some semblance of clarity.

But before his fingers could close around the cool glass, she bit him. Her teeth, not sharp but insistent, grazed over the cartilage of his Adam's apple.

A shockwave of pure, unadulterated lust shot through him. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

His arm swept across the table, sending the glass crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering crystal was sharp, violent, but it failed to penetrate the fog surrounding Aliana. It only seemed to make her more frantic, her movements more demanding.

A dark, primal tide rose in Benedict's eyes, drowning the last vestiges of reason. He shifted his weight, reversing their positions with a fluid, powerful movement. His large hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft hair, stilling her chaotic, desperate bites. He tilted her face up, forcing her glazed eyes to meet his. For a suspended heartbeat, he simply looked at her-at the feverish flush on her cheeks, the parted, trembling lips, the tears clinging to her lashes. She was utterly broken, utterly vulnerable, and something dark and possessive coiled tight in his chest.

"This is your last chance to walk away," he rasped, his voice a low growl.

Her only answer was a broken, keening whimper, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that severed his final thread of restraint.

The storm outside broke, rain lashing against the windows. The sound of tearing fabric and harsh, ragged breaths were swallowed by the roar of the thunder.

He lifted her from the sofa, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her from the living room into the dark expanse of the bedroom. Each step was a battle, a war between instinct and the ghost of his conscience.

The cool sheets of the bed were a shock against her heated skin. A sharp cry of pain, quickly followed by a sob of pleasure, was torn from her lips. She wept, hot tears tracking through the makeup she'd so carefully applied for Jairo.

Benedict paused, his movements gentling. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against her temple, tasting the salt of her tears.

Long after the storm within the room had passed, he held her sleeping form against him. A flash of lightning illuminated her face, tear-streaked and peaceful in exhaustion. He traced the line of her jaw, a strange, unsettling feeling coiling in his gut.

The first rays of dawn sliced through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains, a merciless blade of light. Aliana woke to a pain that felt as if every bone in her body had been ground to dust. She blinked, her eyes gritty and sore.

A heavy weight lay across her waist. A man's arm, tanned and muscular.

Her head snapped to the side. The man sleeping beside her was a stranger. His profile was perfect, carved from stone, his dark hair a stark contrast against the white pillowcase.

Fragments of the night before crashed into her mind. The darkness. The wrong scent. The overwhelming, terrifying pleasure. She remembered the feeling of being trapped, of a door closing and cutting off all light-why did that image make her heart race so?

Jairo. He had done this.

A scream built in her throat, hot and acidic. She clamped a hand over her mouth, choking it back down.

Moving with painstaking slowness, she lifted the stranger's arm from her body. Her legs trembled violently as she slid off the bed. She snatched her torn dress and shredded underwear from the floor, pulling them on with clumsy, shaking hands.

In her haste, her hip bumped against the nightstand. A heavy glass made a dull, clunking sound.

The man on the bed stirred, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

Aliana's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She grabbed her purse, her heels dangling from her fingers, and bolted for the door.

She wrenched the heavy suite door open and fled into the hallway, not daring to look back. She jabbed the elevator button with a trembling finger, praying for it to arrive.

The doors slid open with a soft chime. She scrambled inside.

As the doors began to close, she risked a glance back down the corridor. The door to 1802 remained shut.

The elevator began its descent. Aliana's strength gave out completely. She slid down the cool metal wall to the floor, her body wracked with silent, agonizing sobs.

Back in the suite, the click of the latch closing woke Benedict completely. He sat up, the silk sheet pooling around his waist. The bed beside him was empty.

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering their dark depths.

He threw back the covers. His gaze fell upon the tangled sheets, the indentation of her body still visible on the mattress. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool, empty space where she had lain. A strange, possessive ache tightened in his chest-the unfamiliar sting of wanting something that had already fled. His hand curled into a fist on the pillow.

His gaze fell upon a small, crimson stain on the pristine white sheet-not the mark of innocence his grandfather would have prized, but the evidence of her pain. She had wept beneath him. She had bled. And she had run.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. She was not a suitable match. She was a mystery. And Benedict Hays had never been able to resist a mystery.

"Mark," he said into his phone a moment later, his voice cold and commanding. "The woman from 1802. I want a full report. Everything. Now."

The taxi ride to Jairo Barrett's suburban townhouse was a blur of self-loathing and confusion. Aliana huddled in the corner of the back seat, clutching a suit jacket she had grabbed blindly from the floor in her frantic escape-the stranger's too-large jacket, still carrying the clean, masculine scent of his cologne. She hadn't realized she'd taken it until she was already in the elevator, her torn dress barely covering her, and by then it was too late to go back.

She paid the driver with a crumpled bill and stumbled out onto the familiar curb. The neat iron gate, the manicured lawn, the sterile facade of the house they were supposed to turn into a home-it all felt like a violation now.

As she pushed open the gate, her eyes caught on a flash of crimson in the driveway. A red Porsche. Kylan Sutton's car. Her best friend.

A cold, heavy dread settled in her stomach. She walked up the stone path, her steps unnaturally quiet. The front door was slightly ajar.

She pushed it open.

The entryway was a disaster zone of discarded clothing. Jairo's favorite shirt was tangled with a pair of high heels. Lying in a heap by the stairs was a silk camisole, a distinctive floral pattern she knew as well as her own reflection. Kylan's.

The breath left Aliana's lungs in a painful rush. She followed the trail of clothes toward the living room, hearing them before she saw them-low, intimate laughter, the rustle of sheets. Her hand trembled as she pulled out her phone and hit record before she even stepped into the room.

Then she saw them. Jairo and Kylan, tangled together on the sectional sofa, a cashmere throw barely covering them. Kylan's bare legs wrapped around Jairo's waist, his face buried in her neck.

"So, did the plan work?" Kylan purred, tracing a finger down Jairo's chest. "Did little Miss Perfect finally get what she deserved?"

Jairo laughed, a smug, ugly sound. "Like a charm. One glass of champagne and she was putty in my hands. I walked her right to the investor's door. He'll be very happy with our... partnership."

The words struck Aliana with the force of a physical blow. The blood drained from her face. Her entire body began to tremble.

Rage, pure and white-hot, burned through the shock. She stepped fully into the doorway, the phone held steady in her hand.

"You walked me to the investor's door?" Her voice cut through the room like a blade of ice.

Jairo's head whipped around. Kylan shrieked, scrambling for the blanket.

Aliana raised the phone higher, framing their half-naked bodies in the viewfinder. "Smile for the camera. The investors are going to love this one too." The camera's flash went off, freezing them like animals caught in headlights.

"Aliana!" Jairo roared, lunging toward her. "Give me that phone!"

She sidestepped him easily, clutching the phone to her chest. "Why?" she whispered, her voice raw and broken. "Why would you do this to me?"

He stopped, his face contorted with ugly resentment. "Don't act so innocent. You knew the company needed funding. I did what I had to do."

"He did what you were never willing to do," Kylan added, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a prude, Aliana. Jairo needs a real woman."

The casual cruelty from the woman who had been her maid of honor was the final, killing blow. Aliana let out a short, humorless laugh. "A real woman? Is that what you call someone who spreads her legs for her best friend's fiancé?" She turned the phone toward Kylan, zooming in on her horrified face. "You wanted the spotlight. Here it is."

Jairo stepped closer, his tone shifting to condescending reason. "Just delete the video. If you behave, you can still be Mrs. Barrett."

Aliana looked at his face, at the insincere plea in his eyes, and felt nothing but disgust. She raised her hand and slapped him. The sound was shockingly loud, a sharp crack that echoed through the silent house. Jairo's head snapped to the side, and five angry red fingerprints bloomed on his cheek. He stared at her, his mouth agape in disbelief.

"You bitch!" Jairo snarled, his shock curdling into pure rage. His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair. "You think you can lay a hand on me? In my own house?" He raised his other hand to strike her.

"Mama!"

Three small figures thundered down the stairs. Zane, in his dinosaur pajamas, was first, his dark eyes blazing. Riley was right behind him, clutching her worn teddy bear. Mila brought up the rear, her unicorn blanket trailing like a cape. They planted themselves between Aliana and the man about to hit her.

"Don't you touch my mama!" Zane shouted, his small fists clenched.

Jairo froze. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-surprise, perhaps, or the last dying ember of shame. Then Kylan let out a sharp, mocking laugh from the sofa. "Oh, look. The little bastards came to rescue their whore of a mother."

The insult snapped Aliana out of her paralysis. She wrenched free from Jairo's grip and shoved him backward, putting herself between him and her children. "Don't you dare speak about them that way."

Jairo straightened, his chest heaving. "That's it. Get out. All of you. Now."

"Jairo, please-"

"I said get out!" He pointed a shaking finger at the door. "Every piece of clothing on those brats, every toy in their room-I paid for it. This is my house. My money. You walk out with nothing but the clothes on your backs."

Zane looked up at his mother, his small jaw tight. "Mama," he said, his voice steady. "We don't need his things. Let's go."

Aliana felt her heart splinter and reform in the same breath. He was four years old. He should not have to be this brave. "Go upstairs," she said softly. "Get your sisters' shoes. Grab your backpacks."

Zane nodded and led his sisters back up the stairs without a backward glance.

Kylan shoved Aliana hard against the wall. "You heard him! Get out!" Aliana shoved back, harder, sending Kylan sprawling onto the sofa cushions.

"The engagement is off," Aliana said, her voice steady. "And this video is my insurance. If either of you ever comes near me or my children again, the whole world sees it."

Jairo's face turned purple with rage. "Get out of my house!"

Aliana ignored him. The children came down the stairs, each wearing their small backpacks. Zane had made sure they were dressed properly-shoes on, jackets zipped. She knelt, pulling all three of them close. "We're going on an adventure," she said, her voice bright and brittle. "Just Mama and her three favorite people."

Riley's lower lip trembled. "Is Jairo coming?"

"No, sweetheart. It's just us from now on."

"Good," Zane said quietly. "I never liked him."

Slowly, she pulled the thin silver band from her ring finger. She threw it at Jairo. It struck him just below the eye, the small setting sharp enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood welled up on his cheek.

With her back straight and her head held high, Aliana took a child's hand in each of hers and walked toward the door, leaving everything behind.

"You'll come crawling back!" Jairo shrieked. "You're nothing without me!"

She slammed the door shut, cutting off his venomous words.

The bright California sun was blinding. Aliana looked down at her three children-Zane, watchful and fierce; Riley, trembling but holding back tears; Mila, her unicorn blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor.

"Mama, are you sad?" Mila asked.

Aliana squeezed their hands and forced a smile. "No, sweetheart. Mama's free."

And standing there on the sidewalk, with nothing but the clothes on her back and three small, precious lives depending on her, Aliana Hunt realized she had never been more terrified-or more determined-in her entire life.

The Starlight Motel room was cramped and grimy, with two double beds covered in threadbare floral comforters. A single, bare bulb cast long, dancing shadows on the stained walls. It smelled of stale cigarettes and mildew. Aliana had paid for three nights with the last of the cash in her wallet-the emergency money Zane had grabbed before the taxi came.

"It's an adventure!" she said, her voice bright and brittle as she tucked the children into the lumpy bed. "We're going camping indoors."

Mila clung to her leg, her small body trembling. Riley's lower lip quivered. Only Zane seemed unaffected, his gaze sweeping the room with a cold, analytical curiosity.

Once the children were settled, Aliana slipped into the tiny, grimy bathroom. She turned the faucet on full blast, the sound of rushing water covering the harsh, ragged sobs that she could no longer hold back. She had nothing. No money. No home. Three children depending on her, and her mother-

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The caller ID read: Oakwood Psychiatric Facility.

"Ms. Hunt?" The voice on the other end was professional but urgent. "I'm calling about your mother, Arla Pruitt. Her monthly payment is overdue. The attending physician has ordered a new course of treatment, but we can't proceed until the outstanding balance is cleared."

Aliana's hand tightened on the phone. "How much is the balance?"

"Fifty thousand dollars, ma'am. And the payment was due yesterday."

The number hit her like a physical blow. Fifty thousand dollars. "I-I'll come in today," she stammered. "I'll figure something out."

She hung up and stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her dress was still torn. She looked like a woman who had lost everything-because she had.

She splashed cold water on her face and walked back into the main room. The children were huddled together on one of the beds, watching her with wide, worried eyes.

"Mama has to go check on Grandma," she said, kneeling to bring herself to their eye level. Her voice was steady now, the tears pushed down deep where they couldn't see them. "Zane, you're in charge. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"We know the rules, Mama," Zane said solemnly.

She kissed each of their foreheads and slipped out the door, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders.

After she left, the room fell quiet. Zane stared at the door for a long moment, his small jaw tight. Then he turned to his sisters.

"We need a plan," he said, his voice low.

Riley looked up from her teddy bear. "What kind of plan?"

"A plan to protect Mama." Zane walked to his backpack and pulled out a battered, second-hand laptop he had built himself from discarded parts. "She needs someone strong. Someone who can't be pushed around by people like Jairo."

Mila clutched her unicorn blanket tighter. "Like a superhero?"

"Like a dad," Zane corrected, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. "The most powerful dad in the whole city. Someone who can give us a home and make sure nobody ever hurts Mama again."

He opened a web browser. His sisters crowded behind him, watching as the screen flickered to life.

"How do we find the most powerful dad?" Riley whispered.

Zane's dark eyes narrowed with a determination far too old for his four-year-old face. "We find the most powerful man in the city. And we make him an offer he can't refuse."

His fingers moved across the keyboard. He typed words into the search engine-most powerful CEO in the city, richest man in Sterling Bay, billionaire philanthropist. A flood of news articles and corporate profiles appeared. Zane scanned them, his eyes moving quickly from one headline to the next. He cross-referenced names, filtered out the married ones, eliminated anyone too old. A single name kept appearing at the top of every list. Benedict Hays. Hays Global Enterprises.

Zane looked at the address on the screen, then over at his sisters. A look of grim determination settled over his features. "Tomorrow," he said, "we're going to meet our new dad."

Miles away, in a silent office on the top floor of the Hays Global Enterprises tower, the air was thick with menace.

Benedict Hays sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, his face unreadable. He stared at the report his executive assistant, Mark Fisher, had placed before him.

It contained everything. Security footage of Jairo leading a drugged Aliana to the hotel. Financial records of Jairo's failing startup. And a real-time update on Aliana's current situation.

Benedict's fingers began to tap a slow, steady rhythm on the polished wood. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Each sound was like a hammer blow to Mark's already frayed nerves.

Benedict's eyes scanned the lines detailing the locked doors, the three small children at a motel on the corner of 5th and Elm.

The tapping stopped.

The silence that followed was more terrifying than any sound.

"Mark," Benedict said, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Sir?"

"Jairo Barrett's company. I want every line of credit pulled. Every investor scared off. I want him to file for bankruptcy protection by the end of the week."

"Yes, sir." Mark turned to leave, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

"Mark."

Mark froze. "Sir?"

"Where is she now?"

"The Starlight Motel, sir. Room twelve."

A deep, forbidding frown creased Benedict's brow. 5th and Elm was one of the most dangerous intersections in the city. "Keep eyes on that motel," he ordered. "I want to know the moment anything threatens her. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."