Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Heir

The rough texture of a Persian rug scraped against Chloe Beaumont's cheek.

She could smell cheap perfume clinging to her skin-a scent that wasn't hers. It was cloying, sweet, and wrong.

A sudden wave of overwhelming dizziness and fever washed over her, making her head spin and her stomach clench. Her vision blurred, and her physical strength felt completely drained.

She tried to push herself up. The room swam in and out of focus, a dizzying blur of opulent furniture and glittering surfaces. Far across the suite, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the diamond-sharp skyline of Manhattan at night.

Her limbs felt like lead. She needed to get to the door. Each movement was a monumental effort, like wading through thick, invisible mud.

She stumbled, her hand flailing, and knocked an empty whiskey glass off a side table.

The sound of shattering glass was sharp and loud in the crushing silence.

From the darkness of a bedroom deep within the suite, a sharp, ragged breath answered, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

Chloe's heart seized in her chest. A surge of pure panic cut through her hazy consciousness.

She was not alone.

A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the bedroom. His shirt was open at the collar, his broad shoulders and tense silhouette framed by the moonlight pouring through the window.

The man didn't look at her. He strode to the bar, poured amber whiskey into a fresh glass, and drank it down in one tense, desperate swallow.

Chloe froze, shrinking behind a sofa, trying to make herself invisible.

The tension radiating from him was palpable. With a quiet, strained grimace, he set the heavy glass down firmly against the marble counter, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge, visibly battling a severe, blinding migraine.

A small, involuntary gasp escaped Chloe's lips.

The sound was like a switch. The man's head snapped in her direction, his entire focus locking onto her.

He turned. In the dim light, his deep gray eyes were like burning coals, pinning her in place.

Chloe noticed an old, faded scar along his wrist-a silent mark left behind by some past accident or ordeal.

"Who sent you?" His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, tight with suspicion and guarded caution.

Chloe tried to speak, to explain that she had gotten lost, but another surge of vertigo robbed her of her voice. Weak and trembling, she instinctively reached toward the nearest solid support.

To him, her erratic movements looked like an intentional intrusion. A flicker of cold suspicion crossed his face.

He moved toward her, his steps deliberate yet cautious. Up close, the lines of chronic exhaustion and tension were carved deep into his striking features.

He crouched in front of her, his piercing gaze sweeping over her pale face and fever-clouded green eyes.

"A new tactic? Pathetic." He muttered coldly, but as his fingers gently steadied her trembling wrist, a sudden tremor ran through him.

The aggressive tension in his posture seemed to dissolve.

His pupils contracted in shock. He stared at the intruder, this woman, as if her touch were an inexplicable anchor.

Chloe's instincts took over. Clinging to consciousness, she leaned closer toward the steady, grounding coolness of his hand. Her fingers curled, weak but desperate for balance, around his forearm.

The contact was startling. His entire body went rigid, the violent tremors in his arm ceasing instantly.

The cold suspicion in his eyes was replaced by profound shock, followed by a sudden, overwhelming stillness. In the grip of his agonizing condition, her proximity offered a miraculous calm.

Surrendering to the sudden relief washing over him, he carefully lifted her from the floor, carrying her away from the broken glass and into the bedroom so she could rest.

The heavy door clicked shut, sealing them off from the chaotic night in a quiet, unexpected haven.

Hours later, as the first hint of dawn grayed the sky, Chloe woke with a throbbing headache, though the sudden feverish fog had finally begun to clear.

She looked at the man sleeping beside her. His face, in repose, was as flawlessly carved as a Renaissance statue. But the deep furrow between his brows and the pale, tight line of his lips revealed a sleep that was anything but peaceful.

Fragments of the bewildering night returned to her. Panic flared sharp and clear-she didn't belong here, and she had to leave before he woke.

Silently, she slipped out from the edge of the bed, carefully smoothing down her dress and gathering her bag.

She risked one last look at the man, burning his face into her memory-the dangerous stranger who had become entangled in her nightmare.

Tiptoeing like a thief, Chloe escaped the presidential suite. She jabbed the elevator button, her heart hammering against her ribs.

As the elevator doors slid shut, a floor below, Damien Stone's hand uncurled. The deep line between his brows smoothed out. For the first time in five years, he slept without the screaming of his nightmares.