Woke Up Married To My Mysterious Boss

Aria turned and ran. She ran down the stairwell, skipping steps, the humiliation burning her skin like acid.

She jolted awake, her breath hitching in her throat as if she had just surfaced from deep water. Sweat made her silk pajamas cling uncomfortably to her lower back. The room was dark, save for the ambient city light bleeding through the heavy curtains, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.

She reached out instinctively, her hand sweeping across the Egyptian cotton sheets to her left.

Cold. Empty.

The silence of the bedroom was heavy, but it wasn't absolute. A low, rhythmic thumping sound drifted in from the hallway. It was a dull, repetitive noise, like a heartbeat against a wall.

Aria slid her legs out of bed. Her bare feet met the hardwood floor, and the chill shot straight up her calves. Her stomach twisted-a sudden, violent knot of nausea that had nothing to do with what she had eaten for dinner.

She crept toward the bedroom door, which was cracked open just an inch. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She didn't want to open it. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to get back in bed, to pull the duvet over her head and pretend she was deaf.

But then she heard it. A woman's stifled moan.

The sound froze the blood in her veins. It was a soft, breathy sound, unmistakable in its intent.

Aria pushed the door. The hinges gave a low creak, a sound of betrayal in the quiet apartment.

Light from the living room spilled into the hallway, slicing through the darkness. On the custom Italian leather sofa she had picked out three months ago, two silhouettes were entangled. The movement was frantic, animalistic.

Ignacio Cohen froze. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide, reflecting the hallway light. There was no guilt in them. Only annoyance.

The woman beneath him giggled, a high, vacuous sound. She pulled a sheet up over her chest, her face hidden in the shadows of the room, but her blonde hair spilled over the armrest like spilled milk.

"Ignacio," Aria whispered. Her voice cracked, barely a sound. Shock paralyzed her limbs, making them feel heavy and useless.

Ignacio stood up. He didn't scramble. He didn't apologize. He stood up with a terrifying casualness and pulled on his boxers, his movements quick and efficient, as if he were already late for a meeting. He walked toward her, using his body to block her view of the woman on the couch, his expression hardening into a mask of cold indifference.

"What is this?" Aria demanded. Her hands started to tremble, a fine vibration that rattled her bones.

Ignacio scoffed. He checked his watch, a Patek Philippe she had given him for his birthday, as if she were wasting his precious time.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," he said, his voice flat. "I'm bored, Aria. I'm bored of the 'good girl' act. And frankly, I'm bored of waiting for your stepfather's money to clear."

Aria recoiled. It felt like he had slapped her. The mention of her family's financial trouble-the rumors she had tried so hard to ignore-stung worse than the infidelity.

"You... you're doing this because of money?"

Ignacio didn't answer. He grabbed her arm. His grip wasn't comforting; it was a vice, steering her toward the front door.

"The engagement is off," he announced. "Effective immediately."

Aria dug her heels into the floor, struggling against his grip. "I paid for that sofa! I paid for half of everything in this apartment!"

Ignacio laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Honey, look at the lease. My name is on it. You were just a guest. A guest who has overstayed."

"Ignacio, come back to bed," the woman on the couch called out. Her voice was sultry, dragging out the vowels.

Ignacio shoved Aria into the hallway. He didn't even let her put on shoes. He grabbed her trench coat from the rack and threw it at her face. The heavy wool hit her, smelling of his cologne-sandalwood and expensive lies.

Aria stumbled back, clutching the coat to her chest. Her eyes filled with hot, angry tears that blurred her vision.

"Don't make a scene, Aria," he warned, his hand on the doorknob. "Or I'll make sure everyone in Manhattan knows just how desperate the Berg family really is."

The heavy oak door slammed in her face. The lock clicked-a decisive, mechanical sound of finality.

Aria stood in the hallway, barefoot, shivering. She stared at the brass number 4B. Through the thick wood, she heard the muffled sound of their laughter resuming.

The rain in Tribeca was relentless. It wasn't a cleansing rain; it was cold, dirty, and bit into the skin. Aria wandered the slick streets, her bare feet numb against the concrete. She had managed to button her coat over her pajamas, but the silk offered no protection against the October chill.

Passersby gave her wide berths. In New York, a woman wandering barefoot in a trench coat at midnight wasn't a tragedy; she was a crazy person to be avoided.

She turned down a narrow alley, drawn by the faint hum of bass and the glow of a neon sign: The Blind Tiger. It felt less like a public bar and more like a private secret, the kind of place that operated on its own time.

The bouncer, a mountain of a man, looked her up and down. He saw the frantic look in her eyes, but he also saw the coat-Burberry, current season. He stepped aside.

Aria pushed through the heavy velvet curtains. The blast of jazz music and body heat hit her like a physical wall, disorienting her senses. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and old wood.

She stumbled to the bar, ignoring the stares of the well-dressed patrons who swirled their martinis. She slapped her hand on the mahogany counter.

"Whiskey," she rasped. "The strongest you have."

The bartender, a man with a handlebar mustache and tired eyes, eyed her skeptically. But he reached for a bottle and poured a glass of amber liquid.

Aria downed it in one burn. She slammed the glass down. The liquid fire settled in her stomach, warring with the nausea.

"Another," she demanded.

She drank three more in rapid succession. The edges of her pain began to blur. The image of Ignacio and the blonde woman became fuzzy, less sharp.

"Card," the bartender said, tapping the bar. "To keep the tab open."

Aria patted her pockets. Her hands felt clumsy, disconnected from her brain.

Empty.

She had no phone. No wallet. No keys.

Panic rose in her throat, tasting of bile and whiskey. "I... I don't..."

The bartender's face hardened. He reached for the bottle to pull it away. "No money, no service, sweetheart."

A shadow fell over her. A tall figure in a bespoke charcoal suit settled onto the stool next to her. He didn't look at her; he looked straight ahead at the rows of bottles.

"Put it on my tab," the man said. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth and commanding.

The bartender's attitude shifted instantly. He nodded respectfully. "Of course, Mr. Justice."

Aria turned to look at him. Her vision swam. She saw a sharp, chiseled jawline. Dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He radiated an aura of danger, like a predator resting before a hunt.

She squinted, drunkenly assessing the gold cufflinks that caught the dim light.

She leaned in too close, invading his personal space. She smelled rain and something darker, musk and power.

"Are you..." She poked his chest with a wobbly finger. The fabric of his suit was incredibly soft. "Are you a prince?"

The man raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

"You look expensive," she slurred.

Aria tried to stand up to get a better look at him, but her legs, betrayed by the alcohol and the cold, gave way instantly.

She braced for the impact of the floor, but it never came.

Strong arms caught her. The movement was lightning fast. One arm hooked around her waist, the other supported her back. The contact sent a jolt through her, a spark of electricity that cut through the drunken haze.

He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder. It was hard, muscular. Secure.

"Cab?" the bartender asked.

The man shook his head. "No need."

He carried her toward the back of the room, toward a door marked Private.

Aria mumbled into his expensive lapel, her words slurring together. "Ignacio is a pig. A cheating pig."

The man didn't respond. He kicked open the door to the private lounge, shutting out the noise of the jazz and the world.

He deposited her gently onto a velvet chaise lounge. The room was quiet, dimly lit by sconces that cast a warm, golden glow.

Burke Justice loosened his tie, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. He stared down at the woman. She was a mess-wet hair, ruined coat, bare feet dirty from the street-but beneath the disarray, she was stunning. And broken.

Aria stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She blinked, trying to bring his face into focus.

"What's your name?" Burke asked. His voice was soft, but it held the weight of a command.

Aria ignored the question. She was staring at his lips.

She sat up unsteadily, clutching his lapels to steady herself. She pulled him closer, her grip surprisingly strong.

"You're too handsome to be free," she whispered, analyzing him with the terrifying honesty of the intoxicated.

Burke stiffened. He was used to women wanting him for his money, for his status.

"Are you..." Aria paused, searching for the word. "Are you for hire?"

Burke's eyes narrowed. Then, a glint of dark amusement flickered in them. She thought he was an escort. A high-end gigolo.

He didn't correct her. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "Depends on the offer."

Aria let out a wet, hiccuping laugh. She pulled at her left hand, trying to remove a ring that wasn't there.

"Marry me," she blurts out. The words tumbled over each other, desperate and reckless.

Burke froze. He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"I need a husband," she rambled, tears suddenly welling in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. "To spite him. To show Ignacio I don't care. And... and I can't be homeless. I need... someone."

She sobbed softly, her forehead resting against his chest. "Just for tonight. Please."

Burke felt a twinge in his chest. It was foreign. Empathy? Or was it possession? He looked at this woman, this beautiful, shattered creature who was offering herself to a stranger because she had nowhere else to go.

He gripped her chin, his fingers warm and rough, tilting her face up to his.

"Do you know what you're asking?" he demanded. He needed to know she was in there somewhere.

Aria nodded vigorously. She closed the distance between them.

She kissed him. It was clumsy, tasting of cheap whiskey and salt tears, but it was desperate.

Burke hesitated for a split second. Then, something in him snapped. He crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry, possessive. He tasted her pain and her fire.

Aria pulled back for air, resting her forehead against his. Her breathing was ragged.

"Say yes," she pleaded. Her voice was barely a whisper, broken and raw.

Burke looked at her. He made a snap decision, driven by impulse and a cold calculation he couldn't quite explain.

"Deal," he growled.

He scooped her up into his arms again, turning toward the back exit. He signaled his driver, Donato, who was waiting in the alley like a silent sentinel.