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."