Mistaken Night With My Paper Husband

A wave of nausea churned in her stomach, accompanied by an intense, full-body ache.

She looked down. She was wearing a man's silk pajama top, far too large for her. The collar gaped open, and in the dim morning light, she could see the faint, angry red marks blooming across her collarbone.

Clara Ross's head throbbed, a brutal hammer against her skull. She pried her eyes open, the lavish silk of a pillowcase brushing against her cheek. This wasn't her room.

She shot upright. The movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness through her, and the contents of her stomach threatened to rise. As the fog in her brain began to clear, she gradually recalled the events of yesterday.

Memory fragments, sharp and disjointed, pierced the fog in her brain. She and Cameron Hayes had been married for four years but had never met.

Back then, she was forced to marry him while he lay severely injured in the ICU.

Yesterday, persuaded by her grandmother, Agnes Galloway, she had come to the hotel to meet her husband face-to-face, intending to discuss whether to get a divorce or actually live together.

Her adoptive father, Richard, had even warned her beforehand that Cameron Hayes had a powerful background and the Galloway family absolutely could not afford to offend him.

She remembered Richard handing her a glass of champagne. The clink of crystal.

Then, she had knocked on the door of what she thought was her husband's room. When no one answered, she pushed the door open and walked in. In the dim room, she saw a man leaning against the headboard, fast asleep. The faint light had highlighted his exquisite, peerless face, though he looked deathly pale.

Curious, she had stepped forward and poked his cheek. The moment their skin touched, a sudden, overwhelming heat flared within her. It was then she realized the champagne had been drugged. The drug's effect was incredibly fast, making her entire body burn and her limbs too heavy to escape.

Suddenly, the sleeping man had grabbed her wrist. The potent drug completely washed away her remaining reason. In her hazy state, she had thought, He is my husband, he should fulfill his marital duties.

Driven by the drug, she had taken the initiative to lean over and kiss him. Then, the man had awakened, swiftly reversing their positions and pinning her down. They had spent the entire night together.

A sound cut through her panic. The rhythmic spray of a shower from the adjoining bathroom.

Someone was here.

The realization was like a bucket of ice water. Pure, unadulterated terror seized her. She scrambled off the bed, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet. Her legs were unsteady, threatening to buckle under the lingering soreness from their wild night.

"Clothes," she whispered, the word a dry rasp in her throat.

Her eyes darted around the room. She spotted a heap of fabric on the floor near an armchair. Her dress. Or what was left of it. The delicate strap was torn, the zipper broken.

The worst-case scenario wasn't a scenario anymore. It was a fact.

She forced a breath into her lungs, then another. Panic was a luxury she couldn't afford. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the familiar pressure a small anchor in the swirling chaos. This was a signature habit, a small act of self-control she'd honed over years of living on a knife's edge.

Her gaze swept the room again, landing on a walk-in closet. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, hanging on a hook, was a pristine, hotel-branded bathrobe, still in its plastic wrapping.

Without a second thought, she ripped off the pajama top, her skin crawling as if it were covered in filth. She tore open the plastic and wrapped the clean, impersonal cotton of the robe around her trembling body, pulling the belt tight.

Just as she finished, the shower stopped.