The Amnesiac Billionaire's Fake Perfect Wife

Midnight.

The rain lashed violently against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom. The storm had rolled over Manhattan suddenly, bringing deafening cracks of thunder.

Jessenia sat at the vanity mirror. She was wearing a black silk La Perla slip dress. The fabric clung to her curves like a second skin. She watched Harlan through the mirror.

Harlan walked out of the en-suite bathroom. He had just taken a shower. He was wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hard planes of his chest and stomach. When he turned around to grab his sleepwear, Jessenia saw the thick, jagged scar running across his lower back.

She stood up. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet.

She walked up behind him. As he reached for his silk robe, Jessenia reached out first. Her fingers brushed against the bare skin of his waist.

Harlan's entire body jerked. The muscles in his back locked tight.

Jessenia ignored the flinch. She picked up the robe and stepped in front of him. She held the silk fabric up, her eyes looking deeply into his.

"The doctor said you need rest," Jessenia whispered, her voice low and husky. "But I need you."

She stepped closer. The heat radiating from his skin washed over her. She rose onto her tiptoes. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up, aiming her red lips directly at his jaw.

A split second before their lips touched, Harlan turned his head sharply to the side.

Jessenia's lips brushed against the cold, hard bone of his cheek.

The rejection was absolute. The air in the room turned brittle.

Harlan took a large step backward, putting a physical yard of space between them. He grabbed the robe from her hands and pulled it on, tying the belt tightly.

"I'm sorry, Jessie," Harlan said. His voice was like cracked ice. "My brain tells me I should love you. But my body isn't ready."

The words were a brutal, surgical strike to her pride.

Jessenia bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him. But she forced her eyes to water.

"It's okay," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I waited three years. I can wait a little longer."

She turned around, walked to the right side of the massive California King bed, and slid under the covers. She turned her back to him, staring at the dark wall.

A few minutes later, the mattress dipped as Harlan got into the left side of the bed. The space between them felt like an ocean.

Two hours passed. The storm outside worsened.

A massive crack of thunder shook the glass windows. It sounded like an explosion.

Harlan violently shot up in bed. He gasped for air, his hands clutching his chest. Sweat poured down his face. His eyes were wide and unseeing in the dark. The thunder had triggered a flashback to the island-the storms, the drugs, the feeling of being trapped and powerless.

He was having a severe PTSD panic attack.

Jessenia woke up instantly. She saw him shaking. She saw the absolute terror in his posture.

She didn't hesitate. She scrambled across the mattress. She threw her arms around him from behind, pressing her chest against his trembling back.

"Harlan!" she said loudly over the rain. "You're safe! You're home! I'm right here!"

Harlan gasped. The physical contact startled him, but then the warmth of her body registered in his panicked brain as an anchor.

He spun around. He grabbed her arms with bruising force. He pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her neck. He was breathing like a drowning man who had just found a piece of driftwood.

The logic was gone. The physical revulsion was overridden by pure, primal terror and the desperate need for comfort.

He lifted his head. In the dark, illuminated only by a flash of lightning, he looked at her mouth. He didn't see the woman he hated. He just saw survival.

He crashed his lips down onto hers. Jessenia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, securing her victory in the dark.