The Him In The Chaos

His eyes drop to my linked arm, then slowly lifted back to my face. His grin is sinful, a slow, deliberate curve of the lips that promised trouble and damnation.

“And you are my… wife?” he drawled, his voice dipping low, a private joke just for us, his tone suggesting he was enjoying the setup far too much.

“Uh-huh.” I squeezed his arm. Don’t ruin this. Just roll with it, pretty boy.

He seemed to take that command to heart. His arm came up, his hand dropping to my waist, the grip firm and proprietary. He pulled me slightly closer, a move so subtle yet powerful that it instantly shifted the dynamic. I felt the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my dress.

“I see you’ve met my gorgeous wife, then?” he asked Creep Guy, the tone dangerously polite.

His voice is liquid sin, a rich, deep sound that melted the tension in my spine—and I hate that it melts through me. I bit the inside of my cheek to regain composure.

Creep Guy scoffs. “You don’t know him. I don’t believe you.”

Bad move. Idiot.

My fake husband didn’t even look at the guy. He moved his free hand, reaching around my head. His long fingers splayed against the back of my skull, finding purchase in my hair. He pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that stole my next breath.

His mouth crashes onto mine. It wasn't gentle; it was immediate, demanding, and overwhelming. His tongue parts my lips—no asking permission, no tentative exploration—just a bold, deep invasion, like he owns me. The taste was clean, sharp, and intoxicating, like expensive whiskey and mint.

Holy. Hell.

Just as my knees threatened to buckle, his large, hot hand slid down from my waist, across my hip, and squeezes my behind—a quick, hard, possessive clench that was completely unnecessary for the act. No hesitation, no apology.

This is not acting. This is him setting me on fire with one kiss. My fingers instinctively gripped his shirt, crumpling the fine material.

When he pulls back, the air between us was supercharged and thick with the sound of my ragged breathing. He didn't break eye contact with Creep Guy. He slowly licks his lips, the movement deliberate, sensual, and entirely provocative. His gaze then flicks to my chest—a quick, searing glance to confirm the effect of the kiss—before returning to my dazed face.

“Oh wow,” I breathe, because my brain just short-circuited and left my body.

I didn't even notice the moment Creep Guy decided he'd had enough. He simply evaporates into the crowd. Good.

Mr. Suit seizes my hand. He didn't release me. He dragged me through the crowd, his grip now steel around my wrist. He addressed the space where Creep Guy had stood, his voice a low, furious snarl. “Fuck off, man. She’s with me.”

He didn't wait for a response. He tugged my arm hard and began to drag me through the crowded room. My sandals barely kept up with his long, purposeful stride.

Trouble. Capital T. Tall, dark, gorgeous trouble. And I’m following him like an idiot.

He navigated the tables and milling guests with the practiced ease of someone who owned the space, finally stopping at a large, raucous group gathered in a booth at the back. They were all sharply dressed, loud, and clearly celebrating something. Before I could yank my hand free and demand an explanation for the kiss and the impromptu chase, he slides his arm around my waist again, anchoring me firmly to his side.

“Boys,” he announces to the group, his voice suddenly loud and beaming with manufactured joy. “My fiancée said yes. Meet my future wife.”

What. WHAT.

The group erupted in a chorus of booming laughter, backslaps, and cheerful chaos. Hands reached out, offering enthusiastic handshakes, and greetings.

“Nice to meet you!” one man with a loud laugh exclaimed, shaking my hand far too hard.

“About time! We thought you’d never settle down, Ice,” another shouted.

“Congratulations, brother,” a man who shared his sharp jawline and sea-colored eyes said, offering a sincere clap on the back. “Is she the one you were waiting for this morning?”

Brother. Fiancée. Morning arrival.

Wait—he has a fiancée? The room started to spin a little. The kiss, the lie, the possessiveness—it all just became infinitely more complicated.

“What’s her name again?” His brother asks, the confusion occupying his face. He squinted at me, trying to place me.

His eyes flick to me, that devastating, sexy smile returning. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Bubbles,” he announces with mock gravity.

I snort. Him trying to be funny is the joke. I gave his arm a sharp elbow nudge.

“Bubbles? He’s being silly. I’m Willa. Nice to meet you.” I kept my smile bright and fake, my eyes issuing a silent threat to the man beside me.

His eyes drop again, sweeping slowly down my body and back up.

“My eyes are up here,” I remind him, my voice tight.

He doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t staring. “I noticed.”

“I’m Edward,” his brother said, ignoring the weird exchange. “Thanks for joining us for my wedding.”

Oh. His brother’s wedding.

The pieces, shards of glass from a shattered puzzle, suddenly began to fit together, creating a clear picture of this disaster.

Mr. Suit clears his throat, his grin instantly vanishing, replaced by a tense, serious mask. “Gentlemen, my fiancée and I need to catch up. Excuse us.”

“Ice, enjoy,” Edward says, his eyes narrowed, suspiciously eyeing us until the exit. The resemblance to the man gripping my waist was uncanny, yet Edward's eyes seemed kinder, less predatory.

Ice. Interesting. A perfectly king of the winter kind of nickname.

We walk out, his hand still wrapped around mine, now gripping my wrist as if I might bolt. My nerves twist tighter than a ship's knot.

“I don’t understand why you introduced—”

“Silence,” he cuts in, his voice a low, hard command that brokered no argument. “People can hear you. We’ll talk in my room.”

“That’s not happening—”

The elevator doors open, a silent invitation to a very bad decision. Too late. He pulls me in, his height filling the already small space. The doors hissed shut, closing us in with the charged silence.

His room is a panoramic suite, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the entire glittering lagoon. It is exactly what he smells like—masculine, dangerous, addictive. The air conditioning was set low, lending a crisp edge to the scent of expensive sandalwood and the faint trace of the cigarette I’d noticed him smoking on the plane.

“I’m leaving.” I took one quick, decisive step toward the door.

I reach for the polished handle, but he was faster. His hand slams against the doorframe, the thud echoing in the luxury space. He didn’t touch me, but he didn't need to. He had trapped me between the wall and his body, his chest inches from mine.

“No one is leaving, Willa.”

The way he says my name… not 'Bubbles,' not 'minx,' but my actual name. It was deep, possessive, and felt like a promise—or maybe a threat. It shouldn’t feel like that, but the sound of it sent a shiver racing across my skin.

“Explain,” I demand, meeting his gaze fiercely. I pulled my arms across my chest, crossing my arms even though it won’t protect me from him.

His face was hard, the ocean eyes midnight dark with intensity. He didn't mince words. “My brother Edward is marrying my ex-fiancée.”

My jaw drops. I took a step back, hitting the cool wood of the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The shock was palpable. Fate is a twisted little clown.

“They cheated on you?” I ask softly, the anger suddenly bleeding out of my system, replaced by a strange, empathetic pity.

“Yes.” His ocean-midnight eyes lock onto mine, the word a raw, explosive sound.

“It has nothing to do with me,” I argue, finding the clean, logical way out of this emotional quicksand. I pushed past him, finally grasping the door handle.

He caught my wrist again, his grip firm but not painful, simply undeniable. He didn't speak, but his look—that intense, sharp gaze—was enough. Of course, he’d remind me he’s untouchable. And then the purely shallow thought surfaced, cutting through the drama: Why does he have to be this good-looking? It’s distracting.

“Name your price to pretend to be mine.”

Pretend to be mine. His voice, already low, dropped another register, wrapping around me, warm and possessive. It was a command disguised as an offer.

I looked at the hand gripping my wrist, then up into his relentless eyes. He was offering me a way to fight back against the universe. He was offering me chaos, and right now, chaos felt better than control.

“I’m saying yes,” I tell him, my voice firming, “not because I need your money… but because I know what betrayal feels like. And your brother looks exactly like the kind of self-righteous prick who deserves a little public humiliation.” I paused, realizing the absurdity of the situation. “But I don’t even know your name.”

A slow, knowing smirk returned, pulling the corner of his perfect mouth up. “Call me Icen.”

Of course. Ice. Perfect name for a perfectly cold man.

“Okay, Icen.” My lips curl, finally meeting his smirk with my own genuine, reckless smile. “Let’s get back at your asshole brother.”

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. It wasn't the cynical, predatory grin from the bar; it was a flash of genuine, devastating satisfaction.

And my heart thunders in my chest, a wild, frantic rhythm, like it knows I’m not running away from chaos— I’m running straight into it.