Tangled in Silk

Chapter 1: Lace and Liquor

The first mistake was wearing red.

Not just any red—a blood-silk dress that clung to my hips like it knew all my secrets. I hadn’t meant to stand out at the company’s exclusive gala, but the boutique only had two sizes left. One too small, the other scandalously tight.

Guess which I picked.

The second mistake? Turning too fast with a glass of champagne in my hand and crashing straight into a brick wall of muscle wearing an Armani tux.

“Shit!” I gasped, the glass slipping from my hand as chilled bubbles soaked into an iron-flat chest.

A chest that belonged to Dominic Voss.

CEO of Voss & Rose Intimates. The man behind the lace empire. The untouchable, the cold-hearted, the ridiculously beautiful boss I’d only ever seen from a distance—and usually only through a sea of trembling executives and whispering assistants.

Now he was soaked. And staring at me.

Dead. I was dead.

“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammered, reaching for napkins from a passing tray. My fingers shook as I dabbed his lapel, probably just making it worse. “It was an accident—I didn’t see you—I—”

“Stop,” he said, voice like velvet laced with frost.

I stopped.

He looked down at me with eyes the color of stormy whiskey. Sharp jaw, trimmed beard, a mouth that looked like it had never smiled unless it cost someone their job. He plucked the napkin from my fingers and dabbed at his jacket himself—slow, controlled, uncaring.

“You’re Lana Cruz,” he said. “From marketing.”

I blinked. “You… know my name?”

He gave a faint tilt of his head. “You’ve been sending weekly briefs with campaign data. Your subject lines are always capitalized incorrectly.”

Great. My emails were memorable. But for all the wrong reasons.

“I’ll pay for the suit,” I blurted, already calculating how many months of rent I’d have to skip to afford Armani.

“It’s tailored. Burned now,” he said flatly, eyes trailing down my dress to where the spill had splashed on my chest. “So is your top.”

I looked down. The silk clung to my skin like second skin, outlining the lace of my bra through the sheer fabric. I crossed my arms too late.

Dominic’s gaze didn’t linger. But it didn’t need to. The heat he radiated from three feet away was worse than the champagne.

“I should go,” I mumbled, cheeks blazing.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket because of course his phone survived and glanced at the screen. Then he looked back at me.

“One hour. Penthouse suite. Top floor.”

My heart stopped. “W-what?”

He leaned in. His voice dropped an octave lower—low enough to crawl across my skin. “You’re already dressed like you want to be devoured. Let me do the honors.”

Every nerve in my body short-circuited.

“I’m not that kind of woman,” I whispered.

He smirked. “Everyone’s that kind of woman. When it’s done right.”

I stared at him. “Why me?”

“You’re the only person here who looked me in the eye without pretending they weren’t imagining me naked.”

I choked on air.

He stepped back. Straightened his shoulders. Adjusted his ruined collar like none of this mattered.

“Room 900,” he said simply. “One hour.”

Then he walked away, disappearing into the sea of gowns, suits, and glittering chandeliers like a king vanishing into his castle.

And I stood there, flushed, breathless, and soaked in champagne both on my dress and beneath it.

---

Exactly one hour later, I stood outside the elevator on the top floor of the Voss Tower hotel, heart pounding like a bass drum.

This was crazy. Career suicidal. Immoral. A thousand kinds of reckless.

But as the door opened and I stepped inside the penthouse, nothing felt wrong.

Only electric.

The suite was bathed in soft amber light. No music. Just silence and shadows. A single glass of wine waited on the table. A black box beside it.

Dominic stepped out from behind a sheer curtain, jacket gone, shirt unbuttoned halfway. His chest was sculpted, taut, inked with a small tattoo near the rib something I wasn’t supposed to notice but couldn’t unsee.

He didn’t ask me to sit. Or speak.

He handed me the box.

Inside, folded in black silk, was a matching red lace bra and panty set. My size. Of course he knew.

He gestured toward the hallway. “Bedroom. Change. Come back wearing this.”

I hesitated, pulse thundering in my ears. “And if I say no?”

He stepped closer, voice low and steady. “Then you leave. And I never speak of this again.”

He waited.

And I made the third mistake.

I took the box and walked toward the bedroom, already feeling my morals unravel thread by thread like the lace in my hands.