II

I couldn’t shake off everything I learned yesterday—my sister being forced to marry a man she doesn’t even know. Geneva had started working at our company, not because she wanted to, but because our parents insisted. I knew she wasn’t happy. Her true dream was to become a fashion designer and launch her own clothing line.

We had different aspirations, but the saddest part? Neither of us could chase them. Not when our family's expectations held us captive.

"Why do you look even sadder than usual? Are you the one getting married?" Franklyn teased as he strolled into my office—again. At this point, it felt like a daily routine.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair as I met his gaze. "I feel bad for my sister, Frank. She has no idea what’s coming. She doesn’t know what Dad has planned for her future. She’s too young for this… for a marriage that will define her entire life." My voice was heavy with frustration.

Franklyn’s usual playful demeanor faded, his expression turning serious. He nodded, understanding the weight of my words.

"If you had the chance to save your sister, would you?" he asked. "Would you marry a man you don’t love to protect her?"

His question lingered in the air, pressing against my already burdened thoughts.

I had asked myself this yesterday. And yet, my answer still remained the same.

I didn’t want to marry a stranger. I didn’t want to end up like my parents—trapped in a loveless, miserable marriage. But when I thought about Geneva, about how her dreams might slip away just like mine had, my heart ached.

I forced a sad smile and looked at my friend. "I… I don’t know, Frank. I love my sister more than anything. I want to protect her, keep her safe, make sure she’s happy. But—" I hesitated, feeling the turmoil clawing at my chest. "I don’t think I could survive marrying someone I don’t love… but I don’t know! I’m confused! Don’t ask me that!" My frustration boiled over, and I frowned, looking away.

The thought of stopping my father’s plan consumed me. If I took my sister’s place, would it be the right decision? Would it really save her?

We were too young for marriage. I was twenty-five, and Geneva was only twenty-one. We still had our whole lives ahead of us. This wasn’t our time to be bound by a contract disguised as a marriage.

Franklyn sighed and leaned back, his voice softer. "Alright, alright. Just know I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to—or if you need advice when you’re about to marry a man you don’t love." He winked at me, attempting to lighten the mood.

I rolled my eyes, choosing not to dignify his teasing with a response.

I went home early that night for our family dinner, though my nerves were on edge.

Tonight was the night.

Tonight was when Dad would finally bring up Geneva’s arranged marriage.

I had wanted to talk to him at the office earlier, to convince him to reconsider—but fear and anxiety had kept me silent.

And now, as we sat around the dining table, the moment I dreaded arrived.

"What?! No! I won’t agree to this!" Geneva’s voice rang out, filled with anger and defiance, as soon as our father mentioned her engagement to Harrison Pierre Whitmore.

"Gene!" I scolded, panic seizing my chest. It wasn’t right to yell at our parents, no matter how unfair they were being.

But deep down, I knew—she had every right to be furious.

"Don't touch me!" Geneva yelled, yanking her arm free from my grasp.

Her voice was sharp, filled with anger—but beneath it, I could hear the tremor of fear.

I flinched, not because she hurt me physically, but because her pain cut me deeper than I could bear. I didn't want this for her. I wanted to protect her.

Watching her cry, I felt my own tears fall. This wasn’t just about the marriage—it was about everything we had lost. Our choices. Our freedom. The dreams we were never allowed to chase.

I had promised her, back when we were just kids, that I would always take care of her. That I would do anything for her.

"Setta, I don’t want to get married," she whispered, her voice breaking as she clung to me.

We were curled up on her bed after the explosive argument with our father. I stroked her hair, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before pulling her even closer.

"I’ll find a way to stop this wedding, Gene," I promised, my voice firm despite the storm of emotions inside me. "I’m here for you. I love you."

My decision was final. I would do whatever it took to prevent her marriage to Harrison Pierre Whitmore.

"Cosette Blanche Allen, have you completely lost your mind?!" Franklyn gaped at me, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. "What sane woman would even think of doing what you're planning?!"

I had just told him my idea. A reckless, desperate plan.

I would enter Harrison’s condo, seduce him, and ensure that my father caught us in bed together. If Dad walked in and saw me with Harrison—half-naked, vulnerable—there would be no way he’d let Geneva marry him. He would force me into the marriage instead.

I hated the plan. Hated myself for even considering it. But I was running out of options.

Franklyn was the only person I trusted, which was why I told him. And now, I needed his help.

"Come on, Frank. I can’t do this without you," I said, my tone deadly serious.

He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Are you hearing yourself right now, Cosette? I mean, seriously?!"

I rolled my eyes. "I’m dead serious, and I’m desperate."

Franklyn dragged his hands down his face, exhaling sharply. "Fine! But don’t come crying to me when you regret this ridiculous plan."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "Noted."

He shook his head and muttered something under his breath before sighing in defeat. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

"Find out which room in Harrison’s unit is his. I need to see him tonight."

Franklyn’s mouth fell open before he groaned dramatically. "Oh, for the love of God!"

-

I stood outside Whitmore Apartelle, one of the most luxurious and exclusive residences in LA. The towering glass building gleamed under the city lights, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside me.

Taking a deep breath, I straightened my dress and stepped forward.

Franklyn had texted me earlier with Harrison’s room number, and I had memorized it. As I entered the elevator, I pulled out my tumbler, filled with a strong drink, and took a long swig. The bitterness burned down my throat, warming my chest, but I forced myself to finish it.

I instantly regretted it.

Dizziness washed over me. I wasn’t used to drinking, and now the alcohol was hitting me fast.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. I stumbled forward, trying to recall the room number. Wait… where was I going again?

I stopped in my tracks and fumbled for my phone. My vision swam slightly, but I managed to read Franklyn’s message.

Room 456.

I grinned to myself and pushed forward, determined. When I reached the door, I rang the doorbell—once, twice, three times. Damn it, open up!

After the fifth ring, the door finally swung open.

And holy. hell.

My breath hitched as I took him in. Is this really Harrison Pierre Whitmore? Because—damn—he looked even hotter in person. The sharp jawline, the tousled hair, the piercing gaze that held both annoyance and intrigue. And why does he look even better than the pictures?

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, his deep voice laced with irritation.

Shit. Even his voice sounded richer, smoother—like expensive whiskey.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I grabbed his shirt, pulled him toward me, and crashed my lips against his.

He stiffened for a second, but then—he kissed me back. Hard.

His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against his body as he deepened the kiss. Heat spread through my veins, and before I could think twice, I pushed him inside his apartment.

And then, it happened.

Exactly as planned.

Except… I hadn’t expected to actually go through with it. I had just given myself to a complete stranger.

For Geneva. For my sister. That was the only thing I told myself.

The next morning, I woke up to an aching body and a splitting headache.

Pain throbbed in my core, and my limbs felt sore from last night’s activities.

Then, I felt it—a strong arm draped around my waist, holding me close.

My breath hitched.

Slowly, cautiously, I turned my head.

And my heart stopped.

Oh. My. God.

The man beside me wasn’t Harrison Pierre Whitmore.

Shit.

I had slept with the wrong man.

Panic surged through me as I stared at the sleeping figure beside me. The sharp, chiseled features, the dark tousled hair, the sheer dominance radiating from his very presence—even in sleep, he looked intimidating.

No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

I had just spent the night with Zion Yohan Warren.

The CEO of Warren Hotels and Casinos.

The infamous, ruthless billionaire known as ‘The Devil.’

My blood ran cold.

What the hell have I done?!