Betrayed And Married To The Billionaire Cousin

"Suite 802. Your fiancé has prepared a 'surprise' for you."

Ivana Chase didn't blink. She stood on the plush hallway carpet of a luxury Manhattan hotel, clutching the anonymous text on her phone that displayed suite 802. She gripped the brass handle, ignored the warning, and pushed the heavy oak door open.

The scent of expensive cologne and cheap floral perfume hit her instantly. A trail of discarded garments--a tailored designer jacket, a silk tie, a pair of red stilettos--led straight toward the inner bedroom.

"Fletcher?" Ivana called out, her voice flat, without the tremor in her chest.

A breathy, theatrical giggle answered her. Ivana stepped past the archway and stopped dead.

On the king-sized bed, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, was her fiancé, Fletcher Wooten. Straddling his waist was Breanne Wiley, the self-proclaimed diamond heiress who had spent the last three months worming her way into the Wooten family's elite circle.

Breanne gasped, pulling the duvet over her bare chest with exaggerated modesty, though her lips curved into a sharp, victorious smirk.

"Oh, Ivana!" Breanne gasped, her voice dripping with mock horror,"What are you doing here?"

Fletcher didn't even scramble to cover himself. He ran a hand through his messy sandy-brown hair, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke from the cigarette between his fingers. As the eldest son of the Wooten family's second branch, he had always treated Ivana--an investigative journalist who refused to use the family trust funds--like an inconvenient ornament.

"You really couldn't just stay at the office, could you?" Fletcher asked, his voice laced with pure irritation. "You always have to ruin everything."

Ivana bit her lower lip so hard the metallic tang of blood bloomed on her tongue. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she refused to shed a single tear.

"So this is the emergency board meeting you had to attend?" Ivana said, her gaze sweeping over the rumpled sheets. "You broke our dinner plans to sleep with a fraud?"

"Watch your mouth," Fletcher sneered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Breanne comes from real wealth. Her family owns diamond mines. What do you bring to the table? A low-paying job at a second-rate magazine? You're boring, Ivana. You're bland and boring, and there's no fun in being with you at all. Our engagement is done."

Ivana parted her lips to speak, but a sudden, violent wave of heat exploded from the pit of her stomach. Her knees buckled slightly, a dizzying fog instantly clouding her vision.

Her mind flashed back to thirty minutes ago in the hotel lobby, when Breanne had gracefully handed her a glass of sparkling rosé.

The drink.

A cold realization sliced through the drug-induced haze. This wasn't just a spontaneous betrayal. It was a setup.

"You two worked together to drug me," Ivana whispered, her breath turning ragged as sweat broke out across her forehead, her mind clouding and her limbs rapidly losing strength.

Fletcher snorted, stubbing out his cigarette in the bedside tray. He stood up, towering over her with a cruel, calculating grin.

"You're not leaving this hotel room pure and innocent, Ivana," Fletcher murmured, stepping closer. "There's a suite down the hall with three of my venture capital partners. Once they're done playing with you, you won't have the leverage to demand a single cent from our engagement agreement."

"Stay back," Ivana warned.

She lunged sideways, her fingers wrapping around a heavy crystal ashtray on the console table. With every ounce of adrenaline left in her body, she hurled it at his feet. The crystal shattered with an explosive crack, jagged shards cutting across the leather of Fletcher's loafers.

Fletcher cursed, leaping back to avoid the flying glass.

Ivana spun on her heel and bolted into the corridor.

"Catch her!" Breanne shrieked from the bed. "Don't let her reach the elevator!"

The hallway spun around Ivana like a tilted carousel. Her skin burned as if fire flowed through her veins. Behind her, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed against the marble tiles. Heavy male laughter came from around the corner.

She dragged herself along the wall, her fingernails digging into the wallpaper. Ahead of her, the double mahogany doors of suite 888 stood cracked open by an inch.

She threw her entire weight against the door, tumbled inside, and slammed it shut, slapping the deadbolt into place.

Collapsing onto the cool marble foyer, she gasped for air, her lungs burning.

The sound of rushing water cut through the silence. A second later, the frosted glass door of the master bathroom swung open. A cloud of steam spilled out, carrying the crisp, sharp scent of cedarwood and cold rain.

A man stepped out, a single black towel slung low on his narrow hips. Water droplets tracked down the defined contours of his broad shoulders, chest, and washboard abs. His dark gray eyes, cold and sharp as crushed slate, locked onto the intruder on his floor.

Adrian Wooten. The undisputed head of the Wooten empire, the ruthless titan of Wall Street, and Fletcher's estranged, terrifying older cousin.

"Get out," Adrian said, his voice a low, lethal gravel that vibrated in the quiet suite.

Ivana tried to push herself up, but her limbs had completely liquefied. The drug roared through her bloodstream, overriding every instinct of self-preservation. Instead of retreating, she stumbled forward, collapsing straight against his bare, hard chest.

Adrian's jaw tightened. He seized her slender wrists to fling her away, but the unnatural, scorching heat radiating from her skin made his grip stall.

"Help me..." Ivana whimpered, her fingers curling into the damp skin of his shoulders as her trembling body pressed against his coolness. "Please... help me..."

Adrian looked down at her flushed face. Through the haze of lust and panic in her wide eyes, he recognized her instantly: Fletcher's supposedly docile fiancée.

His gaze darkened with a dangerous, predatory glint. He caught her chin, forcing her head up. Her breath brushed against his throat, rapid and intoxicating.

"Do you know what you're asking for, Ivana?" Adrian murmured, his voice dipping lower.

"Please," she sobbed, burying her face into the curve of his neck, her entire body shuddering with need.

Adrian's ironclad restraint, forged through years of corporate warfare, fractured in a single second. He knew that letting himself get involved in this mess would only bring trouble, yet he could not stop himself from sinking into it. His arm hooked beneath her knees, lifting her off her feet effortlessly, and he carried her toward the massive, silk-draped bed.

Outside in the corridor, the distant, muffled sound of running feet and the unmistakable metallic click of camera shutters echoed against the walls. Adrian's eyes darkened.