The Secretary's Fake Rockstar Husband

Cora's skull felt like it was splitting open.

She dragged a harsh breath into her lungs. The air didn't smell like the damp mildew of her Brooklyn apartment. It smelled like expensive cedar and sharp mint.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the pounding behind her temples. A hangover. A massive, world-ending hangover. She rubbed her thumb hard over her index finger knuckle, a nervous habit she'd had since she was twelve.

Her fingers brushed against the fabric beneath her. It wasn't her scratchy polyester blend. This was heavy, ice-cold, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton.

Her eyes snapped open.

She sat up so fast her stomach heaved. The heavy velvet duvet slid off her shoulders. Cora looked down. She was wearing a crisp, oversized white men's dress shirt. It swallowed her frame, the hem stopping mid-thigh.

Panic seized her throat. It felt like a physical hand cutting off her airway. She scanned the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the sprawling, glittering Manhattan skyline. This was a penthouse suite. A luxury one.

The sound of running water hit her ears.

It was coming from the bathroom across the massive room. Cora grabbed the edge of the duvet, pulling it up to her chin. Her muscles locked into solid stone.

She looked at the floor. Her black evening gown from last night lay in a heap on the thick rug. The delicate strap on her shoulder was torn, likely from when she'd stumbled out of the cab in her drunken stupor.

The water stopped.

The click of the bathroom door handle sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Cora stopped breathing. Her brain scrambled, desperate to find a single memory from the bar last night. Nothing. Just a black, empty void.

The heavy oak door swung open. Steam billowed out into the cold air of the bedroom. A man walked out.

He was incredibly tall, his shoulders broad and heavily muscled. He wore nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water dripped from his wet black hair, trailing down his chest and over his abs.

Cora's eyes locked onto his chest. Right over his left pectoral muscle, there were three fresh, angry red scratch marks.

The man ran a smaller towel through his hair. He lowered it, and piercing blue eyes locked onto her through the messy strands of his dark hair.

"Who..." Cora started. Her voice was a cracked whisper. She cleared her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. "Who are you?"

The man's lips curved into a slow, dark smirk. He tossed the towel onto a chair and walked toward the foot of the bed. He moved with a lazy, predatory grace.

"Callum Lee," he said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. He stopped at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her. "Tell me, Cora. Do you really have zero memory of the assault you committed last night?"

Cora's blood ran ice cold. "Assault? No. No, I don't do things like that. I follow the rules. I don't..."

Callum let out a low laugh. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the mattress. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes doing a slow, calculated blink. He pointed a long finger at his own collarbone. There was a distinct, purple bruise there. A bite mark.

"You pinned me against the door of the cab," Callum said, his voice dropping an octave. "You kissed me until I couldn't breathe. And then you ripped the buttons off my shirt."

Heat exploded across Cora's face. The shame was a physical weight, crushing her chest. She wanted to claw a hole in the floor and disappear. Twelve years of careful, invisible existence at the Hodges estate, destroyed in one night of drunken stupidity.

"I... I am so sorry," Cora stammered, her hands shaking as she clutched the collar of his shirt. "It was a mistake. A horrible mistake. I will pay for the dry cleaning. I'll pay your medical bills."

Callum straightened up. He walked over to a single leather armchair and sat down, crossing his long legs. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, hard calculation.

"The hotel security cameras caught you hanging off my neck in the lobby like a koala," he said flatly.

Cora buried her face in her hands. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw stars. "How much?" she asked, her voice muffled. She forced herself to drop her hands and look at him. She channeled the cold negotiation tactics she used at work. "How much money do you want to make this go away?"

Callum's jaw tightened. A flash of genuine anger crossed his eyes, but he masked it instantly with a careless shrug.

He reached over to the side table and picked up his phone. He tossed it onto the bed. It landed near Cora's knees.

"I'm an independent musician," Callum said. "Look at the screen."

Cora picked up the phone. The screen displayed a Twitter feed. Several blurry photos showed her in her torn black dress, aggressively pulling a tall man by his collar into a hotel elevator.

"The paparazzi already sold the photos to the blogs," Callum said, his tone turning deadly serious. "I have my debut album dropping next week. My investors have a strict morality clause. This scandal will ruin my career before it starts."

Cora stared at the photos. Her stomach hollowed out. "What do you want me to do?"

Callum leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "To prevent this from destroying my life, there is only one option." He paused, his blue eyes boring into hers. "We have to get married."

Cora stared at the phone. Then she snapped her head up to look at Callum.

"You're out of your mind," she said.

She threw the phone back onto the mattress and pulled his white shirt tighter around her thighs. "I am not marrying a stranger. We can issue a PR statement. We can say it was a misunderstanding."

Callum stood up slowly. He walked over to the minibar, turning his back to her. He poured a glass of ice water. "A statement doesn't fix a viral photo of you ripping my clothes off," he said, taking a sip. "My investors want a clean image. A secret, passionate romance is clean. A drunken hookup is a liability."

Before Cora could argue, the doorbell rang. It wasn't a polite chime. It was a frantic, aggressive pounding.

Callum sighed. He set the glass down and walked to the door, pulling it open.

A man burst into the room. He was sweating through a cheap, wrinkled grey suit. He pushed thick black glasses up his nose and waved a tablet in the air.

"The investors saw the photos, Cal!" the man yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "They just called me to invoke the morality clause! They are pulling the funding!"

This was Simon. He pointed a shaking finger at Cora on the bed. "Is this her? Is this the woman who just flushed our entire loan down the toilet?"

Cora flinched. The word 'loan' hit her like a physical blow. The guilt she had pushed down came rushing back, burning the back of her throat.

Callum ran a hand through his damp hair, looking stressed. "Back off, Simon. I'm handling it."

"Handling it?" Simon shouted, pacing the floor. "We borrowed money from dangerous people to fund this album! If the investors pull out because of this scandal, they will break our legs! The only way out is to tell the press you two have been secretly engaged."

"I am not participating in fraud," Cora interrupted, her voice shaking but firm.

Simon stopped pacing and glared at her. "Then I hope you have a spare hundred grand to pay off the loan sharks, lady."

Cora opened her mouth to reply, but her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She reached for it. The caller ID read 'Brenda - Hodges Group'.

Cora hesitated, then swiped to answer. "Brenda?"

"Cora, thank God," Brenda whispered. Her voice was tight with anxiety. "Do not come to the office today. Bennett is on a warpath."

Cora's stomach dropped. "What happened?"

"He issued an internal directive this morning," Brenda said, her voice dropping lower. "He ordered that you are to accompany Caspian Thorne to the charity gala tonight. As his personal date."

The blood drained from Cora's face. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the phone. Caspian Thorne. The billionaire heir known in the New York social circles as a violent sadist. He had sent two of his previous dates to the emergency room.

"Bennett wouldn't do that," Cora whispered, though she knew it was a lie.

"Madam Justine signed off on it," Brenda added gently. "She told HR it was your duty as a ward of the Hodges estate to secure this networking opportunity."

Cora couldn't breathe. The walls of the penthouse felt like they were closing in. Bennett wasn't just rejecting her love. He was treating her like a piece of meat, trading her to a monster just to punish her for walking away last night.

"Okay. Thank you, Brenda," Cora said, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.

She hung up the phone. Her arms lost all their strength. The phone slipped from her fingers and bounced onto the carpet. She stared blankly at the wall.

Callum watched her. He walked over and dropped to one knee right in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

He didn't look like a panicked musician anymore. His eyes were steady, grounding. "What kind of trouble are you in, Cora?" he asked, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble.

Cora looked at him. He was a stranger. But he was a stranger offering a legally binding contract.

If she was a married woman, Bennett had zero legal or moral authority to force her into a matchmaking arrangement. Justine Hodges couldn't touch a married woman. It was the ultimate shield.

Cora dragged a breath of air into her lungs. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.

"How long?" Cora asked, her voice hard. "How long does this PR marriage need to last?"

Callum's pupils dilated slightly. He kept his face perfectly neutral. "One year."

Cora locked her jaw. She pressed her hands together, her knuckles white. She lowered her hands.

"Fine," Cora said.

Cora stepped out of the hotel lobby. She was wearing a cheap, fast-fashion floral dress Callum had ordered from a delivery service. The fabric scratched against her skin.

A massive, midnight-black Rolls Royce Cullinan glided to a stop right in front of her.

The tinted window rolled down. Callum was in the driver's seat, wearing a plain black t-shirt. He nodded toward the passenger side. "Get in."

Cora froze on the pavement. She stared at the chrome grille of the luxury SUV. "Are you kidding me?" she asked. "You're broke."

Callum let out a frustrated sigh and slapped the leather steering wheel. "It's a prop car. We rented it yesterday to shoot a music video. They charge by the hour, and I still have it until noon." He scowled at the dashboard. "The gas mileage on this tank is literally bankrupting me."

Cora hesitated, but the irritation in his voice sounded genuine. She opened the heavy door and climbed in. The smell of rich, untouched leather and expensive cologne filled her senses. She felt entirely out of place.

Callum shifted gears, and the massive car merged smoothly into the chaotic Manhattan traffic.

The cabin was dead silent. Cora turned her head, staring out the thick glass window. The city blurred as they drove. Her reflection in the glass looked pale and exhausted.

Her mind violently yanked her back to last night. The Hodges Group annual gala.

She remembered standing in the corner of the grand ballroom, wearing a rented dress she couldn't afford. She had watched Bennett standing by the champagne tower, surrounded by wealthy heirs and socialites.

She remembered Bennett's younger sister, Seraphina, laughing loudly. "Look at her standing there like a lost puppy," Seraphina had sneered to her friends. "She's just the dead butler's baggage. She actually thinks she belongs here."

Cora had held her breath, waiting for Bennett to defend her. He had been standing two feet away.

Instead, Bennett had taken a sip of his drink, his face completely bored. "Leave her alone, Sera. She knows her place."

Her place.

The words had sliced through Cora's chest like a rusty blade. Twelve years. Twelve years of organizing his life, anticipating his moods, loving him in pathetic, silent agony. And to him, she was just a piece of furniture that knew its place.

A sharp pain radiated from her palms. Cora looked down. She was gripping the seatbelt so hard her fingernails had broken the skin of her palms.

The car stopped at a red light. Callum didn't say a word. He reached out and turned the dial on the climate control, blasting warm air into the cabin.

He opened the center console, pulled out a bottle of Evian water, twisted the cap off, and handed it to her.

Cora took the bottle. Her cold fingers brushed against the warm, rough skin of his knuckles. The sudden heat jolted her out of her dark thoughts.

"Thank you," she whispered. She took a sip, forcing the lump in her throat down.

Callum kept his eyes on the road. "Whoever made you feel like you aren't worth anything," he said, his voice casual but laced with a hard edge, "is a complete and utter idiot."

The words hit Cora right in the center of her chest. Her throat tightened painfully. Tears flooded her eyes, hot and fast.

She didn't argue. She just turned her head back to the window. A single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek and dropping onto her hand. It felt like a physical release of twelve years of poison.

The Rolls Royce turned a corner. The grand, classical columns of the New York City Hall came into view.

Callum pulled the SUV into a temporary parking spot and killed the engine. He turned to her. "Ready?"

Cora took a deep breath. She reached into her cheap purse, pulled out a compact mirror, and quickly applied a layer of red lipstick. It was war paint.

She snapped the mirror shut. Her eyes were hard. "I have never been more awake in my entire life."

They pushed the doors open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. They walked side-by-side toward the massive stone steps.

Cora's phone vibrated violently in her purse. She pulled it out.

The screen flashed with the name: Bennett Hodges.

Yesterday, seeing that name would have made her heart race with hope. Today, it just made her stomach churn with nausea.

Cora didn't break her stride. Right in front of Callum, she pressed the red button, rejecting the call. Then she held the power button down and watched the screen go completely black.

She shoved the dead phone back into her purse and walked up the steps.