I Slept With The Wrong Man のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

~ Seraphina ~ The mirror didn't lie, but it certainly knew how to hide the truth. I stared at the woman reflected in the glass—a vision in hand-stitched silk and diamonds that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. My hair was swept up into a sleek, structural knot that felt like a crown of thorns, every strand lacquered into submission. This was the version of Seraphina Vale that the world was allowed to see: the elegant, silent ornament to a powerful man's legacy. Perfect was a dangerous word. I had been raised on a steady diet of it. My mother had taught me that a woman's success wasn't measured in her achievements, but in her ability to be easy to love and easy to ignore. I had spent twenty-seven years perfecting the art of being a ghost in a designer gown. I picked up a heavy gold cuff and snapped it onto my wrist, and for a split second, the sound echoed like the heavy click of the camera shutters from years ago. I remember the night he proposed. We were at a vineyard in Tuscany,

~ Lucien Blackwood ~ The Corinthian Hotel was a monument to excess, a gilded cage where the city's most dangerous predators wore silk ties and drank vintage scotch. I stood in the deep shadows of the mezzanine gallery, leaning my elbows against the cold stone railing. From up here, the gala looked like a choreographed dance of lies. I adjusted the cuff of my black dress shirt, feeling the familiar weight of the watch on my wrist. Below me, Adrian Vale was holding court. He was loud, expansive, and entirely too comfortable in his skin. He didn't know that his empire was a house of cards, and I was the wind. My gaze drifted away from Vale's bloated ego and snagged on a flash of pale silk near a marble pillar. She stood perfectly still, a stark contrast to the frantic social climbing happening around her. She was beautiful, but it was a quiet, haunting kind of beauty that felt out of place in this room of loud diamonds and louder voices. She was performing a role, moving through the

~ Lucien ~ "The debt isn't just financial, Marcus. It's moral. And those are the debts that carry the highest interest rates." I didn't look up from the three monitors glowing in the darkened expanse of my study. The screens were a waterfall of red—Adrian Vale's financial hemorrhage. Behind me, I heard the soft click of a tablet as Marcus, my assistant and most trusted confidant, updated the ledgers. "He's leveraged the Vale estate against the new development in the harbor," Marcus noted. "If that project stalls for even forty-eight hours, the banks will trigger a margin call that will strip him to the bone." "It won't just stall," I said. "I'm going to make it evaporate. But a man like Adrian doesn't suffer when he loses money. To truly break him, you have to take the things he considers his birthright." I paused, the image of Seraphina from the gala flashing in my mind. The way she had stood by that pillar, her throat bare while her husband draped her family heirlooms over

~ Lucien ~ "The notification just hit the secure server, sir. It’s a direct inquiry for 'L'." Marcus didn’t look up from his tablet. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, his silhouette sharp against the city’s glowing grid. I didn’t need to ask who it was. The timing was too perfect, the air in the room suddenly too heavy. "Is it her?" I asked, my voice grating against the quiet. "The IP address is routed through a boutique hotel downtown. One owned by the Vale family holdings," Marcus confirmed. He turned the screen toward me. "The request is specific. Tonight. 9:00 PM. Room 402. The message is short: "Bring nothing but yourself." I stared at the black square on my own monitor—my own profile. I had built this identity to move through the world of the elite like a ghost, a tool for gathering the kind of leverage that balanced sheets couldn't provide. I had used it a dozen times to dismantle men just as arrogant as Adrian Vale. But this felt different. "She

~ Lucien ~ The whiskey had softened the edges of the night just enough. Not drunk—never that—but warm, loose, the kind of buzz that made every touch feel heavier, every breath louder. She tasted like wine and nerves when I finally kissed her. I had waited until she set her glass down, until her fingers stopped twisting the stem like it might save her. Then I closed the distance, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. My mouth found hers—soft at first, testing. Her lips parted on a small, surprised sound. I took it deeper, tilting her head back with one hand at her nape, the other sliding low on her waist. She melted into me like she’d been waiting years for permission. Her tongue brushed mine, hesitant, then bolder, and something possessive snapped awake inside my chest. I walked her backward until her spine met the wall. She gasped against my mouth. I swallowed the sound, kissed her harder, tasting the faint sweetness of pinot on her tongue. My hands moved—down her