Sleeping with the Enemy's Son
A forbidden billionaire romance full of secrets, betrayal, and undeniable chemistry.
She was raised to hate his name.
He was raised to destroy her family.
But one reckless night changed everything.
When Ashley Walter, the daughter of a powerful media mogul, sneaks into a masked charity gala, she just wants to forget who she is for one night. No titles. No rivalry. Just the thrill of being someone else - especially after realizing her fiancé might not be who he claims to be.
To escape the heartbreak and pressure, Ashley lets her best friend drag her to the gala - one night to forget, one night to feel free.
Then she meets Alan Jean - charming, dangerous, and utterly off-limits. Their chemistry is instant, electric, and wrong in every possible way.
One night of passion. No names. No consequences.
Until there are.
Because Alan is the only son of her father's sworn enemy - and the secret Ashley carries could destroy them both.
When their families collide again in a billion-dollar merger war, Ashley finds herself face to face with the man she's been avoiding... and he's about to learn that the woman who hates him most is carrying his child.
Now, the stakes aren't just business - they're blood.
And love, in a world built on revenge, might be the most dangerous secret of all.
When the masks come off, Ashley realizes the man she gave herself to is Alan Jean, the billionaire heir to her father's greatest rival. Panicked and ashamed, she disappears before dawn, determined to bury the memory and the scandal that could ignite another corporate war.
But weeks later, two pink lines change everything.
She can't stop seeing the enemy's son. The tension between them is unbearable. Her marriage is at stake - and if her father ever finds out, he could have her killed. That's how deep his hatred runs for the other side.
Will love prevail?
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Chapter 8
Alan's POV
If tension could be bottled, this room would explode.
The dinner was supposed to be a celebration - two legacies merging, two empires aligning. But to me, it felt like a trap wrapped in candlelight.
The Walters had spared no expense. The long dining table gleamed under the crystal chandeliers, waiters moved like shadows, and every word spoken was dipped in formality.
I'd been in countless corporate dinners, but none where I had to fight the urge to look at someone every other second.
Ashley Walter sat three seats away, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
The same woman who had once whispered, "no names," while tracing circles on my skin - now acting like we were strangers.
Except we weren't.
Every time she shifted, my chest tightened. Every time she laughed politely at a joke her father made, I heard the echo of her real laugh - the one that had spilled out softly against my neck.
Leah leaned in beside me, whispering, "You look like you're solving a murder."
"Maybe I am," I muttered, cutting my steak. "Just haven't decided who the victim is yet."
She smirked. "Try not to make it the Walters. Bad optics."
Across the table, Ashley glanced up at that moment. Our eyes locked - too long, too knowing - and she quickly turned back to her wine glass.
My jaw clenched.
So that's how she wanted to play it.
For the next hour, I played along - nodding at presentations, answering questions about projected revenue, pretending to care about graphs and partnerships. But under the table, my foot bounced restlessly.
Because I could feel her.
She wasn't even sitting next to me, yet every inch of my body was aware of her presence. The curve of her neck. The way her fingers brushed the stem of her glass. The faint perfume - same one that had clung to my sheets that night.
The room blurred around her.
By dessert, I couldn't take it anymore.
When the waiters cleared the plates and people started drifting toward the balcony for cigars and light talk, I found my opening.
I caught her arm gently as she stood. "Ashley."
She froze - her polite smile faltering for just a second before she turned. "Mr. Jean."
I raised a brow. "We're back to last names now?"
Her eyes flicked to the others nearby, then back to me. "We're at work."
"Right," I said quietly. "Work."
We stood there in silence for a moment - too close, too careful. Every word I didn't say was fighting its way out.
Finally, I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You're really not going to talk about it?"
Her lips parted slightly. "About what?"
I almost laughed. "You know what."
Her chin lifted, that icy corporate composure sliding neatly into place. "I don't think that would be appropriate."
"Inappropriate?" I echoed, smirking. "That's not what you thought that night."
Her eyes snapped to mine - sharp, warning.
But she didn't step back.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
The noise of the room faded - executives chatting, glasses clinking - it all turned to static.
Then she exhaled softly and said, "This merger is complicated enough, Mr. Jean. Let's not make it worse."
"Too late," I murmured.
She looked away, and that small gesture - the flicker of her lashes, the tremor of restraint - hit harder than any argument.
I should've let her go. I knew that.
But my hand was still around her wrist, light but firm.
The same wrist with that tiny crescent-shaped tattoo.
Her pulse was racing.
When she finally pulled free, she didn't meet my eyes. "You're making a scene."
I smiled faintly. "I'm being discreet."
"Then be more discreet," she whispered, before brushing past me - her shoulder grazing mine, leaving my body in chaos.
I turned to watch her walk away, every inch of her collected and calm, like the moment hadn't just cracked the air in half.
Leah appeared beside me again, holding a glass of wine and that irritatingly perceptive look.
"Whatever that was," she said, "don't let Dad see it."
"See what?"
"That look you get when something's off-limits," she replied, sipping slowly. "Because knowing you, you'll want it more."
I laughed softly. "You make me sound predictable."
"You are."
"Not this time."
"Sure," she said, smirking. "Keep telling yourself that."
She drifted away, leaving me with the clinking of glasses and a pulse that wouldn't slow.
Across the room, Ashley was standing with her father, smiling perfectly for the cameras. I caught her glance once - fleeting but electric.
It was all there.
The tension. The restraint. The memory neither of us could erase.
And I knew, right then, that pretending would be impossible.
Because every time she looked at me, I saw the night she tried to forget.
Every time I looked at her, I remembered everything she didn't want me to say.
When our fathers toasted to "new beginnings," I raised my glass too - but my thoughts weren't on business or family legacy.
They were on her.
And the quiet, dangerous truth that burned louder than champagne and applause:
If we kept this up, someone would get burned.
And I was no longer sure I cared who.