Woke Up Married To My Mysterious Boss

The rain in Tribeca was relentless. It wasn't a cleansing rain; it was cold, dirty, and bit into the skin. Aria wandered the slick streets, her bare feet numb against the concrete. She had managed to button her coat over her pajamas, but the silk offered no protection against the October chill.

Passersby gave her wide berths. In New York, a woman wandering barefoot in a trench coat at midnight wasn't a tragedy; she was a crazy person to be avoided.

She turned down a narrow alley, drawn by the faint hum of bass and the glow of a neon sign: The Blind Tiger. It felt less like a public bar and more like a private secret, the kind of place that operated on its own time.

The bouncer, a mountain of a man, looked her up and down. He saw the frantic look in her eyes, but he also saw the coat-Burberry, current season. He stepped aside.

Aria pushed through the heavy velvet curtains. The blast of jazz music and body heat hit her like a physical wall, disorienting her senses. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and old wood.

She stumbled to the bar, ignoring the stares of the well-dressed patrons who swirled their martinis. She slapped her hand on the mahogany counter.

"Whiskey," she rasped. "The strongest you have."

The bartender, a man with a handlebar mustache and tired eyes, eyed her skeptically. But he reached for a bottle and poured a glass of amber liquid.

Aria downed it in one burn. She slammed the glass down. The liquid fire settled in her stomach, warring with the nausea.

"Another," she demanded.

She drank three more in rapid succession. The edges of her pain began to blur. The image of Ignacio and the blonde woman became fuzzy, less sharp.

"Card," the bartender said, tapping the bar. "To keep the tab open."

Aria patted her pockets. Her hands felt clumsy, disconnected from her brain.

Empty.

She had no phone. No wallet. No keys.

Panic rose in her throat, tasting of bile and whiskey. "I... I don't..."

The bartender's face hardened. He reached for the bottle to pull it away. "No money, no service, sweetheart."

A shadow fell over her. A tall figure in a bespoke charcoal suit settled onto the stool next to her. He didn't look at her; he looked straight ahead at the rows of bottles.

"Put it on my tab," the man said. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth and commanding.

The bartender's attitude shifted instantly. He nodded respectfully. "Of course, Mr. Justice."

Aria turned to look at him. Her vision swam. She saw a sharp, chiseled jawline. Dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He radiated an aura of danger, like a predator resting before a hunt.

She squinted, drunkenly assessing the gold cufflinks that caught the dim light.

She leaned in too close, invading his personal space. She smelled rain and something darker, musk and power.

"Are you..." She poked his chest with a wobbly finger. The fabric of his suit was incredibly soft. "Are you a prince?"

The man raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

"You look expensive," she slurred.

Aria tried to stand up to get a better look at him, but her legs, betrayed by the alcohol and the cold, gave way instantly.

She braced for the impact of the floor, but it never came.

Strong arms caught her. The movement was lightning fast. One arm hooked around her waist, the other supported her back. The contact sent a jolt through her, a spark of electricity that cut through the drunken haze.

He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder. It was hard, muscular. Secure.

"Cab?" the bartender asked.

The man shook his head. "No need."

He carried her toward the back of the room, toward a door marked Private.

Aria mumbled into his expensive lapel, her words slurring together. "Ignacio is a pig. A cheating pig."

The man didn't respond. He kicked open the door to the private lounge, shutting out the noise of the jazz and the world.