Wrong Bed:My Fiance Became My Nephew

"Miss Chloe Beaumont agrees..."

The lawyer's voice droned on, each word a hammer blow against the glass walls of the conference room. Outside, the New York skyline glittered, a monument to a world Chloe was being sold to.

Her sister Seraphina's hand tightened around hers. It was cold. Clammy.

"Chloe, breathe," Seraphina whispered.

But the air in the room was too thick, heavy with the scent of expensive leather and defeat.

At the massive mahogany table, a grim-faced man sat in stillness.

A decade ago, he had buried his real name to shield the Carlisle empire from the enemies his father had made. To the outside world, he was acting patriarch-Nathaniel Sterling.

But in this room, there was no need for the mask. Here, he was the ruler of the Carlisle empire-Julian Carlisle.

The only sound from Julian was the soft, rhythmic tap of his knuckle against the wood.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was the sound of a countdown. The sound of her freedom ending.

Chloe's gaze swept across the faces of her family elders. Blank. Resigned. They were selling a daughter into marriage to save a shipping empire on the brink of collapse.

Her eyes landed back on Julian. The man orchestrating it all. His ice-blue eyes were fixed on the documents, his expression unreadable.

The lawyer's voice reached the final clause. "...agrees to the union with Mr. Derek Carlisle."

The name hung in the air. Derek Carlisle-Julian's nephew, the sole heir to the Carlisle fortune.

Chloe stood up. The chair scraped harshly against the floor.

"Chloe, don't," Seraphina pleaded, tugging at her arm.

She shook her sister off. Her hand dove into her Birkin bag and pulled out a manila envelope.

She slapped it onto the table. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

A single sheet of paper slid out. A gynecologist's report. Forged, but they didn't know that.

Every eye in the room locked onto it.

Chloe lifted her chin, her voice trembling but clear. "I can't marry Derek Carlisle."

She paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow.

"Because I'm pregnant. And the baby isn't his."

Seraphina gasped, her face draining of all color. The family elders turned their fury on Chloe, their expressions pure and unadulterated rage. The disgrace was a physical thing in the room.

The tapping stopped.

Julian slowly raised his head. He didn't glance at the report. His gaze, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, landed directly on Chloe's face. He was studying her, not with anger, but with a chilling, analytical calm.

Chloe felt a tremor of fear. She instinctively touched the tip of her nose, a nervous habit she couldn't break when she lied. She forced herself to meet his stare.

The silence lasted ten seconds. Twenty. It felt like an eternity.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Dr. Evans is the finest OB/GYN in New York. He also happens to be the Carlisle family physician."

He leaned forward slightly, the movement predatory. "We can arrange for an examination. Right now. With the most advanced equipment, to ensure there is absolutely no mistake."

The blood drained from Chloe's face. Her bluff hadn't just been called; it had been obliterated.

He picked up a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen. The cap clicked off with a sound of finality. He signed his name-Julian Carlisle-with a fluid, unforgiving stroke.

He slid the document across the table toward her.

"Your little games are over," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper that was more terrifying than a shout. "Sign it."

There was no anger in his eyes. Only absolute, unshakable control.

"Mr. Carlisle," Seraphina began, her voice hoarse. "She's just a child..."

"Miss Beaumont," Julian cut her off without looking at her. "Managing your sister is your responsibility."

The casual dismissal, the public rebuke of her sister for her sake, sent a wave of humiliation through Chloe.

Tears blurred her vision. She snatched the pen. Her hand shook so violently the signature was a near-illegible scrawl. A single tear fell, smudging the ink.

Julian glanced at the signature, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table.

He walked to the door, then paused, his back still to them.

"The wedding is next weekend. I expect no further surprises."

Then he was gone.

Chloe sat before the vanity mirror, a doll being painted for auction. The makeup artist worked silently, her brushes whispering against Chloe's skin.

Seraphina entered the bridal suite at The Plaza, her reflection appearing in the mirror behind Chloe's. She held out a glass of water.

Chloe didn't take it.

"Do you think I'm beautiful today?" Chloe's voice was flat, dead. "Like a prized commodity?"

A flicker of pain crossed Seraphina's face. "I'm sorry, Chloe."

Chloe offered a bitter, humorless smile and said nothing more.

A soft knock at the door. The hotel manager entered, bowing slightly.

"Miss Beaumont, a message from the lobby. Mr. Carlisle... Mr. Derek Carlisle... has not yet arrived."

The air in the room froze. The ceremony was set to begin in less than an hour.

Seraphina immediately pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. The call went straight to voicemail.

A tiny, wicked spark of hope ignited in Chloe's chest.

"See?" she whispered to her own reflection. "He doesn't want to marry me either."

The spark was extinguished moments later when Nathaniel's assistant, a severe-looking woman in a gray suit, entered the room.

"Mr. Carlisle sends his regards," she said, her voice as starched as her collar. "He says the wedding will proceed as scheduled. He will handle it."

And he did.

Derek Carlisle appeared at the altar twenty minutes late, his face a thunderous mask. He moved like a puppet, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on some point far beyond Chloe.

The rest of the day was a blur of champagne and fake smiles. At the reception, Chloe drank. She drank until the crystal flutes felt light as air and the ballroom lights blurred into soft, hazy circles.

Across the table, Seraphina matched her glass for glass, her own guilt a bottomless well.

Halfway through the dinner, Chloe mumbled an excuse about the restroom and slipped away.

Seraphina found her moments later, slumped against the wall in a quiet, carpeted hallway.

"Chloe, please," Seraphina slurred, her own steps unsteady. "Let's just... let's go to the room. You need to rest."

She fumbled in her clutch for the keycard to the honeymoon suite. The hotel had provided it earlier. The numbers swam in her vision. Eight-eight-six-nine? Or was it nine-eight? It didn't matter.

She looped an arm around Chloe's waist, half-dragging her down the corridor. The hallways of The Plaza were a maze of identical doors and dim, opulent lighting.

She stopped in front of a grand suite marked 8869. She swiped the keycard. She didn't notice the light flashing red before she pushed against the heavy door.

It swung inward. Unlocked-housekeeping must have forgotten to latch it after turndown service.

She guided Chloe inside and onto the massive bed, pulling off her painful heels.

"Sleep, Chloe," Seraphina whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears as she pulled a duvet over her sister. "It will all be over soon."

She turned and left, her head pounding. She didn't realize her mistake.

The honeymoon suite was 8898.

Room 8869 was the private, long-term residence of Nathaniel Sterling.

As Seraphina stumbled back toward the ballroom, she collided with a hard chest. It was Derek, his tie loosened, his own eyes glazed with alcohol.

He shot her a look of pure contempt, didn't apologize, and stalked off in the opposite direction.

Toward room 8898.

Chloe drifted on a feverish sea. The champagne had been a mistake, but something else was wrong. A strange, coiling heat spread through her limbs, making her skin feel too tight, her mouth dry as dust. One of the cloying guests, trying to curry favor, must have slipped something into her last glass.

The door to the suite clicked open. A tall, dark silhouette stood framed against the hallway light.

Her drug-addled mind supplied a name: Derek. Her husband. A wave of revulsion, thick, and syrupy, washed over her.

Nathaniel loosened his tie as he stepped into the darkness of his private suite. He preferred it this way, without the jarring intrusion of electric lights. The scent hit him first. A woman's perfume-something floral, and young-mingled with the stale tang of champagne.

His brow furrowed. He thought it was a "gift" from some overzealous business associate. His hand was already reaching for his phone to call security.

Then he moved toward the bed. Moonlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilled across the sheets, illuminating the face of the woman lying there.

His heart stopped.

Chloe Beaumont.

What was she doing here? In his bed?

He saw the unnatural flush on her cheeks, heard the soft, distressed moan that escaped her lips. This wasn't just drunkenness. She was in trouble.

As if in a dream, she whimpered and tugged at the neckline of her wedding dress, her movements clumsy. The delicate lace tore slightly, exposing the curve of her collarbone.

Nathaniel's breath caught in his throat. He reached out, his intention clinical-to check her temperature, to assess the situation.

The moment his cool fingertips brushed against her burning skin, she sighed and latched onto his hand, pressing it to her cheek like a drowning woman clinging to a piece of driftwood.

That single, unconscious act of trust, of seeking comfort from him, shattered a decade of iron-willed control.

The desire he had ruthlessly suppressed for months, the raw, possessive need for this specific girl, erupted like a volcano. He knew it was wrong. She was his nephew's wife. She was untouchable.

But his body, his soul, screamed that she was his.

He leaned down, his voice a raw rasp in the darkness. "Do you know who I am?"

Chloe, lost in a haze of drugs and delusion, only knew the figure looming over her was the man she was forced to marry. The man she hated.

"Bastard..." she mumbled.

The word, meant as an insult, acted as a catalyst. It lit a fire in Nathaniel's eyes.

He should stop. Every rational fiber of his being screamed at him to walk away. But the thread had snapped.

He crushed his lips to hers.

Meanwhile, in suite 8898, Derek Carlisle ripped off his bow tie. He'd expected to find a crying, hysterical bride.

Instead, he found a woman asleep in his bed.

In the dim light, her face was half-buried in the pillow, her hair fanned across the sheets. He assumed it was Chloe, passed out drunk before he'd even arrived.

A cold, cruel laugh escaped him. What a ridiculous family.

He'd been dragged here, forced into this marriage, and now his bride couldn't even stay conscious for the wedding night. Fine. She wanted to sleep through it? He'd give her something to wake up to.

A vicious thought took root in his mind.

This would be his own act of rebellion.