Dorian Emery

First chat

I agreed to be my boss's fake wife. Just a few photos for the press, I told myself. Smile for the cameras, wear the ring, play the part. Easy. Except no one told me the resort only had one suite booked and one bed. Now I'm standing in a five-star hotel room, staring at the king-sized bed like it's my greatest enemy. My boss, Mr. Dorian Emery-cold-and-irritatingly-hot, tosses his jacket onto a chair and mutters something about logistics.

Don't look at me like that. It's just a bed. Just a bed. Sure. A bed big enough to hold all my bad decisions, the press's assumptions, and the fact that my fake husband sleeps shirtless. Relax, sweetheart. I don't bite. That's not what HR would say.