Chapter 6: The Stolen Night

The private jet hummed like a contented beast, swallowing the miles between New York and Paris. I’d barely spoken two words to Alexander since we’d boarded. The photograph—that damned photograph—had been burned to ash in the hotel’s marble fireplace, but its ghost lingered between us like smoke.

He sat across from me, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, scrolling through contracts on his tablet. He looked like a man who owned the world and found it tedious. I hated how my eyes kept drifting to the hollow of his throat, the way his jaw flexed when he read something he disliked.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I’m admiring the view,” I shot back. “The Alps are lovely this time of night.”

His lips curved—a ghost of a smile that made my stomach flip. “The Alps are below us, Elara. We’re over the Atlantic.”

Damn it.

The meeting in Paris was a formality—a merger with a French luxury conglomerate that would triple his company’s holdings in Europe. I was there as arm candy, the perfect contract bride, dressed in Chanel and armed with a smile that said *I belong here*. Except I didn’t belong. I was a fraud playing dress-up, and every second with Alexander reminded me of how easily he could destroy me.

The car dropped us at the Ritz at midnight. Paris glittered beyond the windows, all gilded lamplight and shadowed alleys. The suite was obscene—two bedrooms, a living room bigger than my old apartment, and a terrace overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

“I have calls until late,” Alexander said, shrugging off his jacket. “You should rest. Tomorrow will be long.”

“Right.” I hovered by the door to my room, watching him pour a whiskey from the crystal decanter. “Alexander?”

He paused, glass halfway to his lips. “Yes?”

“Why did you bring me? The merger is yours. The lawyers handle the fine print. You don’t need a wife for this.”

Something flickered in his eyes—dark, unreadable. “Because I wanted you here.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Then he turned away, dismissing me. “Goodnight, Elara.”

I should have gone to bed. I should have closed that door and locked it and pretended this was all business. But instead, I stepped onto the terrace, the night air cool against my skin, and watched Paris breathe. The city was alive, pulsing with romance and secrets, and I felt every second of it like a heartbeat against my ribs.

I didn’t hear him come out. But I felt him—the warmth of his body a foot behind me, the scent of whiskey and sandalwood wrapping around me like a dare.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said.

“Neither are you.”

He moved closer, close enough that his chest brushed my shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that kiss in the meadow.”

My breath caught. “Which kiss?”

“The one where you pretended it meant nothing.”

I turned to face him, and the look in his eyes stole the words from my throat. Here was the real Alexander—not the CEO, not the devil, but a man standing in the moonlight, stripped of his armor.

“It was part of the act,” I whispered.

“Was it?”

His hand came up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded him of the contract, of Victoria, of the photograph, of the thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea.

Instead, I leaned into his touch.

The kiss started slow—a question, not a demand. But when I didn’t pull back, it deepened. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me against him, and I gasped at the heat of his body through the thin silk of my dress. Paris glittered behind us like a thousand stolen diamonds.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughed—a low, wicked sound—and then he swept me into his arms. The bedroom door slammed behind us, and I didn’t care about the contract, or the fallout, or the ghost watching from the shadows. I only cared about the way he looked at me like I was the most dangerous thing he’d ever encountered.

Hours later, tangled in sheets that smelled like him, I traced the lines of his chest, memorizing the map of his skin.

“This changes nothing,” I said, trying to sound firm.

He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm. “Of course not.” His voice was silk over steel. “We go back to being strangers in the morning.”

But his eyes said otherwise, and the weight of that unspoken truth pressed down on my chest like a stone.

I woke alone. The sheets beside me were cold, and the terrace door was cracked open, letting in the pale gray light of dawn. I found him there, dressed, phone in hand, gazing out at the city like he hadn’t just shattered me with his hands and mouth hours ago.

“The car is ready,” he said without turning. “We fly back tonight.”

Last night was a mistake. I see that now. It won’t happen again.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I straightened my spine and gave him the smile of a perfect contract bride. “Of course, Mr. Sterling.”

The merger went flawlessly. Handshakes, champagne, photographs. I played my role, and Alexander played his. But every time our eyes met, something dangerous flickered between us—a promise, a threat, a secret we were both terrified to name.

It was on the flight home, as I stared out at the clouds, that his phone buzzed.

He frowned, reading the screen. His face went pale—a crack in the marble mask.

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned the phone toward me.

The screen showed a headline from a gossip site, timestamped two hours ago. And beneath the headline—grainy, but unmistakable—was a photo of us. On the terrace. In his arms. Kissing like the world was ending.

The caption read: *“Billionaire Alexander Sterling’s Contract Bride Caught in Passionate Embrace—Is the Marriage Real or a Sham?”*

And below that, a single line that made my blood run cold:

*“Sources say Victoria Ashford has hired a private investigator. The divorce papers are already drafted.”*