Wrong Bed:My Fiance Became My Nephew

Chloe drifted on a feverish sea. The champagne had been a mistake, but something else was wrong. A strange, coiling heat spread through her limbs, making her skin feel too tight, her mouth dry as dust. One of the cloying guests, trying to curry favor, must have slipped something into her last glass.

The door to the suite clicked open. A tall、 dark silhouette stood framed against the hallway light.

Her drug-addled mind supplied a name: Derek. Her husband. A wave of revulsion, thick, and syrupy, washed over her.

Nathaniel loosened his tie as he stepped into the darkness of his private suite. He preferred it this way, without the jarring intrusion of electric lights. The scent hit him first. A woman's perfume-something floral, and young-mingled with the stale tang of champagne.

His brow furrowed. He thought it was a "gift" from some overzealous business associate. His hand was already reaching for his phone to call security.

Then he moved toward the bed. Moonlight、 filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows、 spilled across the sheets、 illuminating the face of the woman lying there.

His heart stopped.

Chloe Beaumont.

What was she doing here? In his bed?

He saw the unnatural flush on her cheeks, heard the soft, distressed moan that escaped her lips. This wasn't just drunkenness. She was in trouble.

As if in a dream、 she whimpered and tugged at the neckline of her wedding dress、 her movements clumsy. The delicate lace tore slightly, exposing the curve of her collarbone.

Nathaniel's breath caught in his throat. He reached out, his intention clinical-to check her temperature, to assess the situation.

The moment his cool fingertips brushed against her burning skin, she sighed and latched onto his hand, pressing it to her cheek like a drowning woman clinging to a piece of driftwood.

That single, unconscious act of trust, of seeking comfort from him, shattered a decade of iron-willed control.

The desire he had ruthlessly suppressed for months, the raw, possessive need for this specific girl, erupted like a volcano. He knew it was wrong. She was his nephew's wife. She was untouchable.

But his body, his soul, screamed that she was his.

He leaned down, his voice a raw rasp in the darkness. "Do you know who I am?"

Chloe、 lost in a haze of drugs and delusion、 only knew the figure looming over her was the man she was forced to marry. The man she hated.

"Bastard..." she mumbled.

The word, meant as an insult, acted as a catalyst. It lit a fire in Nathaniel's eyes.

He should stop. Every rational fiber of his being screamed at him to walk away. But the thread had snapped.

He crushed his lips to hers.

Meanwhile, in suite 8898, Derek Carlisle ripped off his bow tie. He'd expected to find a crying, hysterical bride.

Instead, he found a woman asleep in his bed.

In the dim light, her face was half-buried in the pillow, her hair fanned across the sheets. He assumed it was Chloe, passed out drunk before he'd even arrived.

A cold, cruel laugh escaped him. What a ridiculous family.

He'd been dragged here, forced into this marriage, and now his bride couldn't even stay conscious for the wedding night. Fine. She wanted to sleep through it? He'd give her something to wake up to.

A vicious thought took root in his mind.

This would be his own act of rebellion.