Married to my Enemy: A Billionaire's Hidden Love

The chapel was cold.Cold that worked its way under your skin and into your bones, no matter how many clothes you wore.Asher Collins trembled as he loosened the tight collar of his white dress shirt, his shaking hands.Not from cold, but from panic pounding against his ribcage.Today was the best day of his life, it ought to have been — weddings were a celebration of love, weren't they?Instead, he was standing at the altar with Damien Thorne — the man who detested him, the man he had vowed he would never even kiss, let alone marry.He couldn't even glance in Damien's direction, not the way the older man stood frozen, chipped from marble, black with anger.Damien's black business suit was fitting, his broad shoulders wrapped as if molded from a mold, his entire body tense with wrath. His expression was as frosty as the air outside, his jaw set so tightly that it appeared to be about to shatter.The only sound in the cavernous room was the muffled whisper of the priest clearing his th

City lights melted into a rainbow of rain and neon as Asher stumbled through the streets, his bony jacket no protection against the cold drizzle that soaked him to the bone.He had no idea where he was going.He only knew he had to get out — out of Damien, out of the lies, out of the pain his heart seemed to contort with every breath.Asher stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking, head hung low, wiping away the tears that insisted on falling.He revolted himself for it — for being so weak, for loving someone so much whom clearly did not love him just as much in return.Around him, the world passed on — laughing couples ducking under umbrellas, taxis honking furiously, the far-off smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor — oblivious to the way Asher's world was falling apart quietly.He stopped when his legs would no longer carry him.Panting, he looked up and stood before a tiny, cozy-appearing pub tucked between skyscraper-sized office buildings.Warm yellow

Rain drummed steadily on the metal roof of the cabin, restive fingers drumming against a jammed door. Asher changed positions on the couch, caught in a threadbare blanket that did nothing to warm him. A deep grunt escaped between his lips, not pain, but from the suffocating realization of waking up in a world that had only gotten scarier overnight.His eyes snapped open to fuzzy, gray light filtering through grime-covered windows. Chilly air stuck to him, and he still heard the rumble of thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. For a moment, he didn't recall where he was. Then last night came crashing down on him like a freight train of images.The shooting. The broken glass. Damien.He leapt upright, gasping, his heart pounding against his chest like a mad animal."Easy," came from the other side of the room.Asher's head spun in that direction. Damien lounged by the window, half-hidden by light, a foaming mug clasped in both hands. He seemed not to have slept—eyes reddened, dark

The city did not welcome them.Asher sensed it the moment their boots hit shattered asphalt at the edge of a rain-lashed alley in Miradell's center. Buildings loomed too close, too tall, casting long, accusing shadows in the fading afternoon light. Horns blared. Neon signs blinked through rain. People hurried by like whirlpools in a tide, eyes forward, minds elsewhere.Damien drew his jacket hood on and handed Asher a folded piece of paper, dog-eared and worn from being opened too many times."This address—it's where she was last spotted."Asher took it, his eyes scanning the pale handwriting.Monica Vance. Former operative. Whistleblower. Ghost.They walked through narrow alleys, past peeling posters and the drifting aroma of cooked meals from open windows. Asher kept his head bowed, but his eyes were sharp, absorbing everything. He wasn't just searching for threats—he was reading the city, every crack and crevice whisperin

The sun wasn't up yet, but the desert sky was already roiling into a dangerous gray by the time Carter Graves led them out of the factory and into the empty gas depot at the south end of town. His boots crunched over gravel like a ticking countdown to violence."You sure you want this?" Graves asked over his shoulder. "It's gonna get messy.".Damien's reply was knife-sharp. "Messy doesn't scare us."Asher said nothing. His fingers curled near the holster hidden beneath his jacket. The silence between them wasn't heavy—it was charged, waiting to arc.The depot loomed in the dust, rusting steel ribs poking through cracked concrete. Fuel tanks stood as massive corpses, long since drained of their lifeblood. The chain-link fence that surrounded the area was torn in places, a witness to the neglect—or recent habitation.Graves stopped at a damaged hatch. "In there is a man named Ronan Vale. Former arms smuggler. Stole something from me—something sensitive. Data chips with black-market proc