The Wrong Man Felt Right

I found out my fiancé was leaving me from a trailer.

Not a text. Not another woman.

A trailer.

For eighteen months, Asher had been secretly filming our fights, canceling our wedding plans on purpose, disappearing until I cried, then selling every breakdown to a streaming platform for his new documentary: SURVIVING SLOANE.

He wanted America to watch him escape his “crazy fiancée.”

So I gave him a different ending.

Twelve men walked into my Vegas suite the next night.

I interviewed every one of them for the role of my husband.

The twelfth kissed me so well I forgot the cameras, the contract, and every rule I had written.

By sunrise, we'd crossed the one line I swore wouldn't be part of the audition.

I hired him anyway.

Then Asher saw my new husband and went white.

“Tell me you didn't sleep with him.”

I smiled.

“Why?”

His answer wiped the smile off my face.

“Because that's my brother.”

***

The editing suite smelled like burnt espresso and stale air conditioning.

I had arrived at the production studio forty minutes before my team to review the final cut of our engagement special. The screen was paused on a high-resolution still of my fiancé, Asher, smiling against a studio backdrop.

Then I hit play.

The title card didn’t say *Sloane & Asher: Forever Hart*.

It read: *Surviving Sloane*.

A montage cut across the monitor in rapid succession. Footprints of my worst days, caught on hidden lenses and private security feeds. Me sitting on the floor of a dressing room after a sixteen-hour shoot, mascara running down my cheeks. Me snapping at a producer during an unscripted breakdown.

Then came Asher, sitting in an armchair under soft lighting, his voice dripping with rehearsed sorrow.

"I love her," Asher told the interviewer, shaking his head. "I just don't know if anyone can survive being married to Sloane Hart."

I didn’t blink. I reached past the mixing console and flipped open the blue production binder lying on the desk. Tucked behind the episode log was a signed distribution deal. Asher had sold a solo tell-all documentary behind my back for eight million dollars, scheduled to drop three days before our televised wedding.

I didn't cry. I didn't smash the monitor. I didn't even call him.

Instead, I took out my phone and dialed my head of logistics. "The twelve brand ambassadors flown in for the Vegas launch—divert them all to my penthouse at the Bellagio. Now."

***

By three in the afternoon, twelve men stood in a neat line across the marble living room of my suite. They were tall, polished, and thoroughly confused, each holding their promotional portfolios.

I walked the length of the Persian rug, holding a clipboard.

"The menswear campaign is on hold," I said, looking down the line. "I'm interviewing husbands."

A beat of stunned silence fell over the room. One of them let out a nervous chuckle, then choked it back when he saw my face.

"Three rounds," I continued. "Red Carpet Touch, Dress Emergency, and Wedding Kiss. If you fail any of them, security will escort you to the lobby with your original appearance fee."

Candidate One stepped forward for the Red Carpet Touch. His hand landed on my hip like a lead weight, sweaty and shaking.

"Eliminated," I said. "Next."

Candidate Five fumbled the Dress Emergency test, getting his cufflinks tangled in my silk zipper and ripping two seams in under four seconds.

"Out."

Candidate Eight attempted the Wedding Kiss with all the grace of a golden retriever lunging for a tennis ball. I sidestepped before his mouth could make contact.

"Get him out."

By five o'clock, eleven men had been escorted through the double doors. The suite was quiet again, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.

The heavy suite doors pushed open.

A man stepped inside, carrying a battered leather gym bag over one shoulder. He was wearing a fitted black T-shirt, dark denim, and had athletic tape wrapped around both wrists. He wasn't polished like the influencers my PR team usually hired. He had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and an unreadable look in his gray eyes.

"Candidate Twelve," I said, glancing at the final sheet on my clipboard. "Luca Reed. You're late."

"Flight from Reno was delayed," Luca said, dropping his bag onto a chair. His voice was deep and steady. "I was told there was a mandatory fitting."

"The job changed," I said, closing the gap between us. "Stand still."

I stepped into his space. I waited for him to tense up or offer a rehearsed smile like the others. He didn't move.

"Red Carpet Touch," I said.

Luca looked down at me, his expression calm. He lifted one hand and placed it on the side of my waist.

The contact was firm, steady, and instantly warm through the fabric of my dress. He didn't hesitate, and he didn't squeeze. He held me with an effortless authority that anchored me where I stood.

My pulse skipped. He wasn't performing for a camera.

"Wedding Kiss," I said quietly, testing him.

Luca didn't ask questions. He slid his hand from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair. He pulled me in without rushing and pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss wasn't theatrical. It was heavy, demanding, and thorough. The heat between us flared so fast it made the air feel thin. When his thumb stroked the skin just beneath my jaw, a sharp shiver ran down my spine.

I broke the kiss, stepping back to catch my breath.

His eyes were darker now, watching me with steady intent.

I picked up the pen from the console and wrote *FINALIST* in bold across his application.

"Pack your things," I said, keeping my voice level. "We're moving to the next phase."

"Which is?" Luca asked.

A sudden flurry of camera flashes strobed against the high penthouse windows from the street below. I looked down. At least twenty paparazzi were crowding the private hotel exit, lenses aimed directly up at our terrace. Asher’s team had clearly leaked our location.

"The Honeymoon Suite Test," I said, locking the terrace doors. "We're stuck here until morning."

***

An hour later, I stepped out of the bathroom wearing a charcoal silk robe.

Luca was sitting on the edge of the sectional sofa, slowly unwinding the white boxing tape from his left knuckles. The skin beneath was red and bruised.

I crossed the room, picked up a pair of shears from the desk, and sat down on the coffee table opposite him. Without asking, I took his wrist and began carefully snipping the stubborn adhesive at the base of his thumb.

He watched my hands work. "Still an interview?"

"Everything is an interview until the papers are signed," I replied.

"You haven't mentioned what happened to the fiancé."

"He decided to make a documentary," I said smoothly, peeling the last layer of tape from his skin. "I decided to replace him."

Luca let out a low, dry laugh. "Ruthless."

"Practical."

I dropped the tape into the wastebasket, stood up, and walked over to the media console beneath the television. Tucked between the decorative books were two small standby cameras used for behind-the-scenes reality footage.

I reached out and clicked the power switches off, one by one. Then I walked to the wall panel and cut the internal audio feeds.

The red recording lights died instantly.

Luca leaned back against the cushions, tracking my movements. "What was that for?"

"I don't perform for an audience in my own bedroom," I said.

I picked up the PR prenuptial agreement from the table, grabbed a black marker, and drew a thick line straight through Section 4, Clause B: *NO SEXUAL RELATIONSHIP REQUIRED*.

I tossed the paper onto the table in front of him.

Luca glanced down at the crossed-out clause, then looked back up at me, his gaze locking onto mine. "Are you sure about that, Sloane?"

"I don't sign contracts I don't intend to keep," I said.

He stood up from the couch. The distance between us disappeared in two strides. He caught my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the desk, his mouth coming down on mine with absolute certainty.

***

Morning sunlight cut across the king-sized bed, illuminating the tangled white sheets.

My silk robe lay discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed, tangled with Luca’s black shirt.

I sat up slowly, the cool air touching my bare shoulders. Luca was still asleep beside me, lying on his stomach, his breathing deep and even, the sharp lines of his back catching the early light.

I didn't feel panic. I didn't feel a shred of regret. For the first time in six months, I felt completely in control.

I reached over to the nightstand, picked up my phone, and opened my messages.

I dialed my assistant's direct line.

She answered on the first ring. "Sloane? Asher’s publicist is trying to reach you, and the other eleven candidates are asking if there's a second round."

I looked down at the sleeping man beside me, then at the signed contract on the desk.

"Cancel the other eleven," I said calmly. "He got the job."