Chapter One: The Wrong Man
Naomi's nails dug into the crisp hotel sheets as she arched her back, a cry catching in her throat. Damian's body moved above hers, strong and steady, the kind of rhythm that made it impossible to think. His hands pinned her down, firm and commanding, as if he'd memorized every part of her in the last few hours. And maybe he had.
"God, yes, Damian"
She didn't know how she remembered his name. Maybe it was because it was the only thing he'd told her. Maybe it was because he'd made her scream it five times already. He groaned into her neck, warm breath skating over her skin, his thrusts growing deeper, slower, crueler. He wanted to draw it out. Wanted her to remember him.
Naomi's fingers tangled in his hair as she pressed her lips to his jaw, her breath shaky, her body overstimulated and still craving more. Every inch of her was burning.
He growled low in his throat. "You can take one more, babe. Just one more."
She gasped, shaking her head, but her hips betrayed her. She rose to meet him, and he slammed into her again, hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.
By the time she collapsed against the pillows, she was shaking.
Damian kissed her shoulder, her spine, her hip. Then he rolled away, laughing breathlessly. "You're a menace."
"You're insatiable." Naomi stared at the ceiling, legs sprawled open, skin glistening with sweat. She felt wrecked. In the best way.
Damian climbed off the bed, still gloriously naked, and padded to the bathroom. The sound of the shower started a moment later.
Naomi reached for her phone, blinking against the brightness of the screen. 3:12 AM. Valentine's Day had officially ended. Thank God.
She could still see the image, like a poison behind her eyelids, Marcus Vale, her fiancé, slamming into her stepsister Dorothy like he hadn't just promised Naomi a future. Like the wedding she'd planned down to the silver cutlery meant nothing.
Her stomach turned. She shoved the thought away.
Damian stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his abs. Jesus. She stared, unabashed.
"Want another round?" he asked with a teasing smirk.
Naomi burst into laughter. "What the hell are you made of? Steel?"
He raised a brow. "Genetics. Good diet. High stamina."
She shook her head, sitting up. "I'm officially tapped out."
He watched her dress, that small amused smile still tugging at his mouth. She slipped on her blouse, zipped her skirt, then pulled out her phone again.
"You've been amazing," she said
His brows lifted slightly. "Thanks?"
She opened her banking app and transferred a five-digit sum. Damian's phone pinged on the nightstand. He glanced at the notification, then back at her, his smirk freezing.
"You just paid me," he said slowly.
She shrugged like it was obvious. "You're a callboy, right? Or do you prefer escort?"
His jaw ticked. "Do I look like I need to be paid to sleep with someone?"
Naomi frowned, a flicker of confusion tightening her brow. "I'm sorry. I thought… I mean, the hotel bar, the way you—"
"You thought wrong."
She narrowed her eyes, suddenly defensive. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
Damian stared at her for a long moment, then exhaled a quiet laugh. "Because you were hurting. And you didn't want a name. You wanted a distraction."
Her throat tightened. "Have we met before?"
He looked at her, really looked. Something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition? Maybe. But it passed.
"No," he said. "Not that I remember."
"Good." Naomi straightened. "Because I don't want to be remembered. Not tonight."
She left before he could say anything else.
---
The road back to the Cole estate was empty. Naomi drove with the windows down, the wind in her hair, trying to force the chill to wash away the heat still clinging to her skin.
She hadn't been home in three months. Not since the engagement disaster. Not since she'd walked in on Marcus and Dorothy in her bed. The sheets hadn't even been changed. Marcus hadn't looked guilty. Dorothy hadn't stopped riding him.
Naomi gripped the wheel tighter
The memories poured in like a tidal wave.
She was six when the Coles adopted her. Back then, she was the center of their world. Her mother, Celeste, brushed her hair every morning, told her she was beautiful. Her father, Franklin Cole, carried her on his shoulders. There were ballet recitals, tea parties, bedtime stories.
Then Dorothy was born.
Suddenly, Naomi became the "other" daughter. The charity case. The adopted one.
Dorothy had her own nursery filled with gold-trimmed cribs and baby pink walls. Naomi's room stayed the same. Her toys were donated. Her dresses stopped arriving in fancy boxes.
By the time she was twelve, Dorothy was already spoiled beyond saving. She cried, and Naomi got blamed. She broke things, and Naomi was punished.
At sixteen, Naomi met Marcus Vale. He was older, charismatic, and her parents loved him,mainly because his family was rich. They arranged their engagement when she turned eighteen. Naomi clung to that future like a lifeline. If she couldn't be loved at home, maybe Marcus would love her.
For a while, he did. Or pretended to.
Until Dorothy turned twenty-one.
Naomi saw the shift. The way Marcus looked at her stepsister. The late-night calls. The excuses. But she ignored them. Because the alternative was admitting she had nothing.
Until the week of the wedding. When she opened the door and saw Marcus between Dorothy's legs, his hands on her hips, Dorothy looked over her shoulder with zero shame.
"I didn't know you were home," Dorothy had said. As if that made it better.
Naomi had told her parents. Celeste sipped her wine and said, "You must've misunderstood." Franklin didn't even look up from his laptop.
So Naomi left.
Now she is back. And she didn't know why.
The estate gates loomed in front of her. She typed in the code and drove through. The house hadn't changed. Cold marble. Sharp edges. A place built for appearances, not love.
Dorothy was waiting in the grand foyer. Perfectly dressed. Tear-streaked. Fake as hell.
"Naomi," she whimpered.
Naomi said nothing.
Dorothy wrung her hands. "I made a mistake. I didn't mean to hurt you. Marcus... it just happened. I was lonely, and he was... there."
Naomi's silence cut through the air.
Dorothy sniffled. "I shouldn't have. But I'm pregnant now."
Naomi froze.
Dorothy's eyes were glassy. "It's his. I didn't want you to find out like this. But I can't hide it anymore."
The world tilted beneath Naomi's feet.
Pregnant. Her stepsister was pregnant by the man she was supposed to marry.
Naomi felt her heart crack, but her face stayed calm. Ice cold.
She nodded once, turned around, and walked toward the stairs without a word.
Dorothy's voice chased her down the hallway.
"I'm sorry, Naomi. Please. Say something."
But Naomi had nothing left to say.
She'd already buried the part of her that used to beg for love.