One-night stand with cheating fiancé's uncle

Isla Turner was this close to completely losing it. How the hell was it actually Damari Evans standing there?

She thought about darting back in to grab her coat, but that would only make her boss wait longer. Steel ing herself, she tugged her collar tighter and fastened her belt with extra care, making sure not a sliver of skin was showing before she pulled the door open again.

Putting on her most unbothered face, she asked, "Mr. Evans, do you need anything else?"

Her flushed cheeks gave her away instantly. Damari held out her phone to her. "You left this in my car."

"Thank you, Mr. Evans. Sorry for the trouble."

Isla grabbed the phone, keeping her eyes glued to the floor, and was just about to shut the door when his hand shot out to stop it. She had no choice but to look up, and met Damari’s unyielding, serious gaze. "When it’s just the two of us, I’m not your boss."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Isla slid down against it, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks. The word *husband* flashed unbidden through her mind.

She shook her head hard. All he wanted was a wife to please his grandfather. How stupid could she be, daydreaming about actually being his wife?

That night, she slept like crap. She dreamed of Vicente Wood, and another woman. In the dream, they were strolling hand in hand across the bridge at their old college, kissing under blooming apple trees. He baked her that spiced honey cake she used to love, and told her stories just like he used to.

Isla was just a background character, standing off to the side watching it all. Her heart ached so bad tears streamed down her face, and she tried to walk away. But Vicente never turned around. He never even glanced her way.

When she turned away broken-hearted, she spotted a man in a suit reaching for her through the swirling apple blossom petals. "Isla."

She woke up to harsh morning sunlight stabbing right across her bed. She touched her eyes and found leftover tear tracks, the ache from the dream still clinging to her chest.

Isla never was the type to wallow, especially not when it came to dumb boy stuff. She grabbed her fully charged phone and saw a dozen texts from Vicente, all rambling explanations. Just like she suspected, the girl was his mentor’s daughter. He claimed he only felt brotherly toward her, nothing romantic.

If she really was just the mentor’s daughter, why was he the only one stuck taking care of her? Why was 90% of her social media posts all about him? She knew damn well the girl was aware Vicente had a girlfriend. Isla was sick to her stomach over how the girl faked innocence while throwing herself at him nonstop.

She deleted all the texts, opened WhatsApp, and ordered a new work outfit from her go-to retailer, arranging for same-day delivery. Right after she sent over her address, an unknown number popped up on her screen.

She answered, and Vicente’s exhausted voice came through the line. "Babe, you’re finally online. I’ve been blowing up your phone all night."

Isla’s voice was ice-calm. "Don’t call me that. If I wasn’t clear enough before, let me spell it out for you, Vicente. We’re done."

"But Isla, I don’t have anything romantic with her. Ending things over this isn’t fair, is it?"

Isla took a deep breath, staring out at the morning sun. "Vicente, do you get it? Emotional betrayal hurts way worse than just cheating on you physically."

"Isla, where are you? Let’s meet up and talk this through—"

Isla hung up on him, flipped her phone to silent, and ignored every call that came after. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror; her eyes were still a little puffy from crying.

She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash all the old memories away. Once her new outfit showed up, she changed and headed into work.

The night before, Damari hadn’t gone home. He’d stayed in the suite next door to Isla. Early that morning, his butler brought in breakfast.

Without looking up from adjusting his cufflinks, Damari said, "Bring a plate to Ms. Turner next door too."

"The lady checked out fifteen minutes ago. Oh, by the way—she left a piece of clothing behind. We don’t have her contact info, so we weren’t sure if she wanted it back."

Damari walked into the room next door. When he saw the sheer black nightgown laid out on the tray, his Adam’s apple bobbed hard. "She won’t need it. Throw it out."

Just as the butler reached for it, Damari’s voice stopped him. "Wait. Keep it. Get it cleaned."

He scanned the room; it was spotless, except for the faintly rumpled sheets. On the vanity, two long strands of dark hair sat, the only proof a woman had been there. His gaze landed on the robe Isla had borrowed, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Back at the office, Isla was touching up her lipstick when her mom called.

"Isla, come home for dinner."

The word *home* pulled a bitter smile to Isla’s face. In a family that openly played favorites, she’d never once felt what a warm home was supposed to feel like. After Mack got sick, her parents kicked her and Mack out to Grandma’s house just to free up space for their precious youngest son.

She answered coolly, "I have to work late tonight. You guys go without me."

"Your grandma said she misses you. Just come back for a visit."

Her grandma—who’d worked herself to the bone saving up for Mack’s treatment—had fallen and broken her leg.

Isla’s hand slipped mid-stroke, and the lipstick dragged all across her cheek. Her face dropped, and her voice cracked with anger. "Why did you bring her over there? You know she’s not in good shape, she—"

"That’s exactly why she’s here, to recover with us. I picked up your favorite sides, so make sure you come early."

The call cut off abruptly, leaving Isla staring at the screen with a dark look. A cold voice from the doorway pulled her out of it. "Your lipstick’s smudged."

Startled, she looked up into the mirror and met a pair of calm, deep-set eyes, dark and mysterious like fog over still water.

She caught sight of the red streak streaking across her jaw, and Isla’s cheeks flushed bright red.

Was she just cursed today? How come Damari had to witness every single one of her embarrassing moments?

She fumbled, half-ready to greet him, half-ready to scrub the lipstick off, not sure which to do first.

He handed her a soft linen handkerchief. "Clean it up."

"Tell everyone the meeting’s in an hour." With that, he was gone, all business, like he hadn’t married her the night before.

No matter what, Damari was still that meticulous workaholic, completely unfazed by their brand-new status.

Isla wiped the stray lipstick off with the handkerchief. It didn’t smell like cigarette smoke at all, just had a faint, clean, woody scent.

When she realized there were tissues right next to her, she felt a little silly for using his handkerchief. After she cleaned it and blew it dry with the hand dryer, she folded it carefully, planning to give it back to him later.

With a few minutes to spare, Isla ground some coffee beans, filled the filter, and hit brew. Damari always worked late, always needed coffee. It’d been her daily job for a year now.

When Isla knocked on the CEO’s office door holding the mug, her heart was pounding like crazy. Yesterday, he’d just been her untouchable boss. Now he was her husband, even if it was only on paper.

"Mr. Evans, your coffee." She set it down, her long eyelashes fanning out over her cheeks to hide how nervous she was.

"Isla, you brought coffee for Damari, and nothing for me?" a teasing voice cut in.

She spun around to see a man leaning against the window, eyes that dripped with easy charm. A friend once told her those eyes could make even a stray dog feel like it was the most loved thing in the world.

Ambrose Burns threw his arms wide and strolled over. "Shocked, huh? Did my new fit knock you out?"

His outfit screamed old money, that effortless relaxed elegance that made Isla think of a suave mafia boss out of a mob movie.

She pushed the silly thought aside and stood up straight, polite as ever. "Mr. Burns, what would you like to drink?"

Ambrose slung an arm over her shoulder, an amused grin tugging at his lips. "The drink doesn’t matter. What I really want is—"

He leaned in, whispering mischievously right against her ear, "You to be my secretary instead. What d’you say?"