Clara
A jackhammer is trying to break through my skull. From the inside out. My tongue feels thick, coated with the stale residue of vodka and bad decisions. The light filtering through my eyelids is a searing, unwelcome white. I try to roll over, to bury my face in a pillow, but the sheets are wrong.
They’re too smooth. Silk, or something pretending to be. I don’t own anything made of silk. My sheets are cheap cotton, slightly frayed at the edges. My apartment doesn’t have light this bright. My bedroom window faces a brick wall.
My eyes snap open.
The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, white and ornate with crown molding. To my left, a wall of glass showcases a sprawling cityscape still waking up under a hazy dawn. I am very, very high up.
This is not my room.
I push myself up slowly, my head protesting with a violent throb. The silk sheet pools around my waist. I am naked. A quick, frantic memory search yields flashes of the night. The club. The pulsing music. A deep voice. Whiskey brown eyes. Ronan.
I turn my head.
He is there. Sleeping beside me, lying on his stomach, one arm thrown over his head. His dark hair is a mess against the white pillowcase. In sleep, the sharp, confident edges of his face are softer. He looks younger. Almost peaceful. He is a stranger. A dangerously beautiful stranger I brought back to… where?
I slide out of the bed. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. The floor is polished marble, cold under my bare feet. The room is enormous. A penthouse suite, by the looks of it. A sitting area with a sleek leather couch, a fireplace that looks like a piece of modern art, and that breathtaking view of the city.
My clothes are in a heap on a velvet armchair. The red dress looks cheap and garish in the morning light. My clutch is on the nightstand.
I need to leave. Now. Before he wakes up. I tiptoe across the marble, my movements silent by instinct. Every assassin knows how to walk away from a scene. This is no different. Just another room to vanish from.
My left hand feels heavy. Wrong.
I stop halfway to the chair and lift it into a sliver of morning light. A band of gold sits on my ring finger. It is not delicate. It is a thick, substantial piece of metal, intricately carved with what looks like a roaring lion’s head. It looks like something a king would wear. Or a kingpin.
A cold dread, heavy and metallic, settles deep in my gut. Where did this come from? I tug at it. It doesn’t budge. It feels like a shackle.
My eyes dart back to the nightstand, to my clutch. There is something next to it. A folded piece of paper. It is thick, creamy, official looking. My heart starts to beat a frantic, panicked rhythm against my ribs.
I snatch the paper. My hands are shaking. I unfold it.
The words swim before my eyes, the legal jargon a blur until two names snap into focus. Two signatures at the bottom.
Aria.
My name. The lie.
And below it, his.
Ronan Moretti.
Moretti. The name echoes in the silent penthouse. A cannon blast in a library. The Moretti crime family. The family that owns this city. The family my last target was betraying. The family whose orbit is a black hole that pulls everything in and crushes it.
The paper is a marriage certificate. Signed and dated for last night.
“No,” I whisper. The sound is swallowed by the cavernous room. “No, no, no.”
My training wars with pure, unadulterated panic. Assess the situation. You are in the private residence of the heir to the most powerful criminal organization in the country. You are wearing his ring. Your fake name is on a legal document binding you to him. You have no weapon. You have no exit strategy.
This is not a one night stand gone wrong. This is a catastrophe.
My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. I have to get out. I have to get to Lena. I have to disappear. I can do that. I am a ghost. I can become a ghost again. I grab my dress, my hands fumbling with the thin fabric. I have to run.
“Good morning.”
The voice is low, gravelly with sleep. It slices through my panic and freezes me in place.
I turn slowly. Ronan is sitting up in the bed, the white sheet pooled around his waist. He is watching me, his whiskey brown eyes clear and alert. He is not smiling. He is not smug. He looks… calm. Resigned.
He takes in my stance, the wild terror in my eyes, the certificate crumpled in my fist. He nods toward it.
“I see you’re an early riser.”
“What is this?” My voice is a harsh whisper. I hold up the paper. It shakes.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he says, his voice even. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
“This isn’t real,” I say, backing away toward the door. My dress is still clutched in my other hand. I need to get out of here. “We were drunk. This can be undone. Annulled.”
“It’s real,” he says, and his certainty is terrifying. “And it cannot be undone. Not yet.”
I look at him, at his calm demeanor, and a cold rage starts to burn through my fear. He did this. He planned this.
“You drugged me.” The accusation is sharp, venomous.
For the first time, a flicker of emotion crosses his face. His eyes narrow. “No. I would never do that. We were both drunk, yes. Stupidly, ridiculously drunk. But we both signed it. Willingly.”
I search my memory, through the fog of vodka and champagne. I remember laughing. A lot of laughing. A trip to an all night chapel. A man who looked like Elvis. It felt like a joke. A stupid, drunken adventure.
“This is a mistake,” I say, my voice flat. My eyes dart around the room, mapping the distance to the door, calculating.
“No,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, completely unselfconscious in his nudity. He is lean but powerfully built, his skin covered in a roadmap of old scars that his suit had hidden. He is a warrior. Not a businessman. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was… an impulse. A necessity.”
“A necessity?” I almost laugh, the sound brittle and hysterical. I’ve reached the door to the suite. I don’t even know if it’s locked.
I turn the handle.
“Aria, wait.”
His voice is not a command. It is not a threat. It is a plea. It stops me cold. I have dealt with killers, thugs, and monsters. I know how to handle commands and threats. I don’t know what to do with a plea.
I look back at him. He has not moved closer. He stands by the bed, giving me space. His hands are held up, palms open, a gesture of peace.
“I know how this looks,” he says, his voice low and steady, trying to anchor me. “I know it’s insane. You have every right to run. Every right to hate me.”
“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice shaking less now. The anger is a better shield than the fear was.
“Just… don’t,” he says. “Not yet. Please. Before you go, just let me explain everything. I swear to you, this is not what it seems. Just give me five minutes. Hear me out. If you still want to leave after that, I won’t stop you.”
I stare at him, my hand frozen on the doorknob. My instincts are screaming at me to run. To disappear and never look back. To grab Lena and be on a bus to another country by nightfall. That is what Nyx would do.
But he is looking at me with an intensity that strips away all my layers. He is not looking at a ghost. He is looking at me. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know what to do.
He holds my gaze, his expression earnest, waiting for my answer.
The city is waking up behind him, the sun catching the glass towers and setting them on fire. My old life, the one I so carefully built, feels a million miles away. It feels like it burned down last night in a haze of vodka and a stranger’s laughter.
