Sunlight pierced my eyelids like red-hot needles. I tried to move, but something cold and metallic gripped my left wrist. Panic hit me before I could even open my eyes fully.
Handcuffs.
My heart raced. I blinked repeatedly, trying to focus my blurred vision. White silk sheets. High ceilings with crystal chandeliers. Heavy curtains partially blocking the morning light. It definitely wasn't my room.
And then I saw it.
A man slept beside me, handcuffed to the same headboard as me. My left wrist was tied to his right, as if we were criminals chained together. He was on his back, the defined muscles of his bare back on display, a tribal tattoo running from his left shoulder to his shoulder blade.
"No, no, no..." I whispered, my voice hoarse and desperate. I yanked hard on my wrist, making the handcuffs rattle loudly. The metal scraped against my skin, but didn't give. The man stirred at the sound, turning his head slightly.
My God. He was... devastatingly handsome. A strong jaw covered in perfectly unkempt stubble, full lips, dark lashes that brushed his sharp cheekbones. Even asleep, there was something dangerous about him, like a predator resting before a strike.
I tried to piece together the night before, but there were only hazy fragments. I remembered the party. The red dress Melissa insisted I wear. The champagne flutes. Discovering Ricardo—my fiancé, my damn fiancé—kissing my best friend in the garden.
The anger. The pain. The desire to disappear.
After that... nothing. A black, terrifying void.
"You'll rip your own hand off if you keep pulling like that." A deep, velvety voice cut through my thoughts.
I froze. The man had opened his eyes—green eyes so intense they seemed to pierce my soul. He watched me with an unreadable expression, somewhere between amusement and calculating curiosity.
"Who are you?" I managed to ask, hating the tremor in my voice. "What are we doing here? Why are we handcuffed?"
He turned completely to me, leaning on his free elbow. The movement made his abdominal muscles contract, revealing a perfectly defined six-pack. I swallowed, forcing myself to keep my gaze on his face.
"You really don't remember?" There was something dangerous in the question, as if he were testing whether I was lying.
"I don't..." I looked down and realized, horrified, that I was wearing only lingerie. A black lace set that was definitely not mine. "Oh my God. We... we did..."
"Had sex?" he finished, shamelessly. "No."
The relief lasted only a second. "But we almost did," he continued, those green eyes fixed on me with disturbing intensity. "You were quite... insistent."
The blood drained from my face. "I wouldn't do that. I was engaged. I would never—"
"Was?" He arched a perfect eyebrow. "Interesting past tense."
Memories began to come back in painful flashes. Ricardo. Melissa. The betrayal. The drinks. Lots of drinks. A stranger at the hotel bar. Green eyes watching me. A conversation. A proposal. Going up to a room.
"No, no, no..." I brought my free hand to my mouth, nauseated.
"You found out your fiancé was cheating on you," he said, as if reciting obvious facts. "You decided to get revenge. You dragged me here. You demanded I help you get even. Your words, not mine."
"I wouldn't do that," I repeated, but my conviction was fading.
"You did." He sat up, the handcuffs pulling us even closer together. He was so close now I could feel the heat emanating from him, a masculine scent of sandalwood and something wilder. "And then, just when things were getting interesting, you passed out. Completely. I was stuck here with you all night."
"Why didn't you let me go?" I accused, though I knew it was irrational to blame him.
He smiled. It wasn't a gentle smile. It was the grin of a wolf baring its teeth.
"Because you hid the key before you passed out. You said it would be 'fun.'" He tilted his head. "It wasn't."
I looked around frantically, searching for my phone, my purse, anything. That's when I saw it: my phone on the nightstand, the screen lit up with notifications exploding one after another.
"Give me my phone," I demanded, holding out my free hand.
"Are you sure?" There was a warning in his tone.
"Now!"
He took the phone and placed it in my hand. The moment I unlocked the screen, I wished I hadn't asked.
47 missed calls, 128 unread messages, Instagram: 2,847 new notifications
With trembling fingers, I opened Instagram. The first photo made me forget how to breathe.
It was me. And him. On this bed. The handcuffs glinting under the flash. My head on his bare chest. His lips close to my forehead. The image screamed intimacy, sex, scandal.
The caption was even worse: "When true love finds you, you just know. An unforgettable night with my future. #NewLove #GoodbyePast"
"No..." I whispered, scrolling. There were more photos. Many more. All from different angles, all equally compromising. "Who posted this?"
"You," he replied calmly. "Around three in the morning. You were very eloquent about 'showing that cheating jerk what you missed.'"
I kept scrolling. The comments were a toxic mix of shock, judgment, and malicious gossip.
"Isabella Torres cheating on her fiancé??? I can't believe it!" "Who is this hottie? Lucky her!" "Daddy's little girl showing her true colors." "Ricardo dodged the bullet. She's a..."
My vision began to darken around the edges. This couldn't be happening. My father. My family. The company.
"I need... I need to delete," I murmured, trying to access the settings with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
"Too late," he said, emotionless. "The screenshots are already everywhere. Some gossip sites have already published articles. You're trending on Twitter."
"You don't understand!" I screamed, turning to him. Tears burned my eyes. "My father has a consulting firm. Our reputation is everything. This will destroy..."
The phone vibrated in my hand. It was my mother.
I answered with trembling hands.
"Mom, I can explain—"
"ISABELLA SOFIA TORRES!" Her voice cut through the phone like a whip. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" "I didn't... it was a mistake, I—"
"Your father is having a high blood pressure crisis! Clients are calling to cancel contracts! Shareholders are demanding explanations!" She was crying now, her voice cracking. "How could you do this to us?"
"Mom, please, let me explain—"
"Come home. NOW. And bring this... this man with you. Your father will want to speak to him."
The call dropped.
I stared at the black screen, completely paralyzed. My entire life was crumbling. Everything I had worked for, every sacrifice, every careful choice to be the perfect daughter, the perfect bride, the perfect heiress.
Destroyed in one night.
"Breathe." His voice cut through the rising panic. "You're hyperventilating."
"Don't tell me what to do!" I burst out, turning to him. "This is your fault!"
He arched an eyebrow, completely unfazed.
"Mine? I was just having a quiet drink. You're the one who dragged me here." "You could have refused!"
"You could have," he agreed, those green eyes too piercing. "But I didn't."
There was something in the way he said it. As if there were layers of meaning I couldn't decipher. As if he knew so much more than he was revealing.
"Who are you?" I asked again, this time more slowly. "Really."
He held my gaze for a long moment. Then, in one fluid motion, he grabbed a wallet from the nightstand with his free hand. He pulled out a card and offered it to me.
DANTE MORETTI CEO - Moretti Enterprises
My stomach dropped. Moretti Enterprises. One of the largest corporations in the country. Investments, technology, real estate. Billions in assets.
And I had been involved in a sex scandal with the CEO.
"Oh God," I murmured. "This can't get any worse."
As if the universe wanted to prove me wrong, the bedroom door burst open.
Three men in suits walked in—security guards, I could tell by their intimidating bearing. Behind them, carrying a professional camera, came a photographer I recognized from my father's social events.
And behind him, with a venomous smile on her perfectly made-up face, was Melissa.
My former best friend. The woman Ricardo chose over me.
"Good morning, dear," she hummed, in that sweet voice I always used to mask cruelty. "We hope you slept well."
The camera flashed, capturing the moment. Dante and I, handcuffed, half-naked, on a hotel bed.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that my life would never be the same again.