THE BILLIONAIRE’S EXCHANGED BRIDE

Chapter 17

Ariana ~

The morning light filtered softly through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, casting a warm, pale glow over the plush carpeting. I lay still beneath the covers, my eyes tracing the intricate plaster molding of the high ceiling while the rhythmic, even sound of breathing filled the quiet space beside me.

Ethan was still asleep.

It was a rare sight. Usually, by seven in the morning, he was already up, showered, and reviewing international market reports in his private study. But today was Saturday—the first weekend in a month he had completely cleared of high-stakes corporate meetings and board calls.

I shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and pulled the sheet up over my shoulder.

Even in sleep, Ethan’s presence commanded the room. One large, strong arm was thrown casually over the mattress, resting dangerously close to my waist as if he guarded me even in his dreams. The sharp, rugged lines of his jaw were relaxed, softening the intimidating, predatory edge that defined his waking hours.

For three weeks, I had lived in a state of perpetual terror, waiting for the floor to drop out from under me. Yet here we were, suspended in a bizarre, fragile domestic peace.

Slowly, I eased myself off the edge of the mattress, making sure not to disturb his arm. My bare feet padded silently across the hardwood floor toward the en-suite bathroom.

As I splashed cold water over my face, staring at my reflection in the lit vanity mirror, the familiar wave of guilt threatened to drown me. My skin looked pale, dark circles of exhaustion lingering beneath my hazel eyes. I wasn't just lying to a stranger; I was lying to a man who was slowly, terrifyingly starting to show me a version of himself nobody else in New York ever got to see.

*He told you he trusts you,* a quiet voice reminded me in my head. *And you're repaying him by living a lie.*

I dried my face with a soft hand towel, took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed the dark thoughts aside. I couldn't spiral into a panic attack today—not when Ethan had actually carved out an entire weekend for us.

When I stepped back into the master bedroom, the king-sized bed was empty.

I frowned, looking around the spacious suite. The faint, rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries drifted in from the private kitchenette area near the windows.

I walked out of the bedroom, following the scent down the short hallway into the sunlit sitting room.

Ethan was standing by the marble kitchen island. He had discarded his button-down shirt entirely, wearing only a pair of dark gray lounge pants riding low on his hips. The morning sun caught the sharp, sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders, highlighting the faint scars from a life built on ruthless corporate combat.

He was carefully pouring freshly brewed coffee into two porcelain cups, moving with a quiet, deliberate grace.

"You're up early," I murmured, leaning against the doorframe.

Ethan paused, turning his head over his shoulder. A slow, warm smile broke across his face, instantly softening his rugged features.

"I wanted to make sure you had breakfast before your mind started racing," Ethan replied smoothly, his deep voice carrying a rich, morning gravel. He gestured toward the marble counter where a plate of warm croissants and fresh fruit sat beside the coffee.

I walked over, pulling out a stool and sitting down. "You didn't have to do all this. The staff—"

"The staff are off-duty this weekend," Ethan cut in softly, walking over and placing a cup of coffee right in front of me before leaning his hips against the counter across the island. "I wanted the house quiet. Just us."

The words sent a warm, terrifying flutter through my chest. *Just us.*

"A quiet weekend?" I teased lightly, trying to mask the sudden nervousness in my throat. "No hostile takeovers? No emergency board calls from Tokyo?"

"None," Ethan promised, a dark, amused glint dancing in his obsidian eyes. "My phone is locked in the safe downstairs. For the next forty-eight hours, the only thing on my schedule is you."

He reached across the marble counter, his warm fingers wrapping gently around my hand, rubbing his thumb softly over my knuckles.

I looked down at our joined hands, a heavy knot forming in my throat. He was giving me his time—his most valuable, guarded asset—believing with every fiber of his being that I was the woman he had chosen for life.

"Ethan..." I started, the name slipping out before I could stop it, the confession clawing at the back of my teeth.

"Hmm?" he hummed, tilting his head as his dark eyes locked onto mine, searching my face with that sharp, intense focus.

"Nothing," I whispered, swallowing the words back down into the dark abyss of my guilt. I forced a small, fragile smile. "Just... thank you."

Ethan’s gaze softened. He reached out, cupping my cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone.

"You never have to thank me for wanting to spend time with my wife," he murmured softly.

Before I could answer, my phone—resting quietly on the marble counter beside my coffee cup—suddenly vibrated, flashing a harsh, bright light against the wood.

I glanced down casually, expecting a routine text. But the name flashing across the screen made my blood run instantly cold.

*Aria.*

Ethan noticed the sudden rigidity in my posture. His hand paused on my cheek, his dark eyes narrowing slightly with instant, instinctive suspicion.

"Who is calling you at seven in the morning on a Saturday?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that masked a razor-sharp edge.

"No one," I stammered, my heart slamming violently against my ribs as I snatched the phone off the counter. "Just... spam. A wrong number."

Before Ethan could inspect my frantic expression further, I hit decline, sliding the phone into the pocket of my lounge robe. But a second later, it buzzed again. A text message popped up on the lock screen, bright and inescapable.

*Aria: Pick up the damn phone, Ariana. I'm back in New York, and I'm coming to collect what's mine. You have ten minutes before I knock on your billionaire husband's front door.*