Woke Up Married To My Mysterious Boss

Aria turned and ran. She ran down the stairwell, skipping steps, the humiliation burning her skin like acid.

She jolted awake, her breath hitching in her throat as if she had just surfaced from deep water. Sweat made her silk pajamas cling uncomfortably to her lower back. The room was dark, save for the ambient city light bleeding through the heavy curtains, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.

She reached out instinctively, her hand sweeping across the Egyptian cotton sheets to her left.

Cold. Empty.

The silence of the bedroom was heavy, but it wasn't absolute. A low, rhythmic thumping sound drifted in from the hallway. It was a dull, repetitive noise, like a heartbeat against a wall.

Aria slid her legs out of bed. Her bare feet met the hardwood floor, and the chill shot straight up her calves. Her stomach twisted-a sudden, violent knot of nausea that had nothing to do with what she had eaten for dinner.

She crept toward the bedroom door, which was cracked open just an inch. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She didn't want to open it. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to get back in bed, to pull the duvet over her head and pretend she was deaf.

But then she heard it. A woman's stifled moan.

The sound froze the blood in her veins. It was a soft, breathy sound, unmistakable in its intent.

Aria pushed the door. The hinges gave a low creak, a sound of betrayal in the quiet apartment.

Light from the living room spilled into the hallway, slicing through the darkness. On the custom Italian leather sofa she had picked out three months ago, two silhouettes were entangled. The movement was frantic, animalistic.

Ignacio Cohen froze. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide, reflecting the hallway light. There was no guilt in them. Only annoyance.

The woman beneath him giggled, a high, vacuous sound. She pulled a sheet up over her chest, her face hidden in the shadows of the room, but her blonde hair spilled over the armrest like spilled milk.

"Ignacio," Aria whispered. Her voice cracked, barely a sound. Shock paralyzed her limbs, making them feel heavy and useless.

Ignacio stood up. He didn't scramble. He didn't apologize. He stood up with a terrifying casualness and pulled on his boxers, his movements quick and efficient, as if he were already late for a meeting. He walked toward her, using his body to block her view of the woman on the couch, his expression hardening into a mask of cold indifference.

"What is this?" Aria demanded. Her hands started to tremble, a fine vibration that rattled her bones.

Ignacio scoffed. He checked his watch, a Patek Philippe she had given him for his birthday, as if she were wasting his precious time.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," he said, his voice flat. "I'm bored, Aria. I'm bored of the 'good girl' act. And frankly, I'm bored of waiting for your stepfather's money to clear."

Aria recoiled. It felt like he had slapped her. The mention of her family's financial trouble-the rumors she had tried so hard to ignore-stung worse than the infidelity.

"You... you're doing this because of money?"

Ignacio didn't answer. He grabbed her arm. His grip wasn't comforting; it was a vice, steering her toward the front door.

"The engagement is off," he announced. "Effective immediately."

Aria dug her heels into the floor, struggling against his grip. "I paid for that sofa! I paid for half of everything in this apartment!"

Ignacio laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Honey, look at the lease. My name is on it. You were just a guest. A guest who has overstayed."

"Ignacio, come back to bed," the woman on the couch called out. Her voice was sultry, dragging out the vowels.

Ignacio shoved Aria into the hallway. He didn't even let her put on shoes. He grabbed her trench coat from the rack and threw it at her face. The heavy wool hit her, smelling of his cologne-sandalwood and expensive lies.

Aria stumbled back, clutching the coat to her chest. Her eyes filled with hot, angry tears that blurred her vision.

"Don't make a scene, Aria," he warned, his hand on the doorknob. "Or I'll make sure everyone in Manhattan knows just how desperate the Berg family really is."

The heavy oak door slammed in her face. The lock clicked-a decisive, mechanical sound of finality.

Aria stood in the hallway, barefoot, shivering. She stared at the brass number 4B. Through the thick wood, she heard the muffled sound of their laughter resuming.