Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
As the billionaire CEO of Lombardi Holdings, I don’t make impulsive decisions. Each investment is intentional, and the risk is always worth the reward. I’ve spent years trusting my instincts, and they’ve never steered me wrong.
Until one unforgettable night ends with Alexandria wearing my ring.
I remember every second.
Every vow.
Every kiss.
Every whispered promise she made in my arms.
I never imagined she’d wake up believing it was all a drunken mistake. Now we’re back in Seattle, and she won’t return my calls. Alexandria avoids me at every turn, pretending the diamond on her finger and the marriage license that makes her my wife never happened.
Too bad I’m not a man who admits defeat. Alexandria’s my wife—she’s wearing my ring, and I always keep what’s mine
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
prologue
ALEXANDRIA
Consciousness doesn’t return to me in a gentle, sunlit wave. Instead, it hits me like a physical blow, dragging, kicking, and screaming from the heavy, suffocating depths of a dreamless sleep.
“Ugh,” I groan, the sound catching painfully in the back of my throat that feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper. My mouth is bone-dry, tasting of stale, expensive champagne and a lingering warmth I can’t quite name. A pounding ache vibrates behind my eyes, matching the frantic beat of my pulse. I try to roll over, but my body refuses to cooperate. I’m pinned, tangled in a Charlotte’s Web of heavy sheets and a plush duvet. My hair, usually a tamed, glossy cascades of curls, is currently a wild, static-charged bird’s nest, clinging to my damn neck and obscuring my vision. I blink against the dim light filtering through the heavy blackout curtains of the room.
Where the hell am I?
The thought sparks a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline. I bolt upright, or at least I try to, before the room spins violently, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. When the tilt-a-whirl rollercoaster subsides, I look down. The mattress beneath me is massive, a sprawling king-size bed, covered in crisp white cotton sheets and a heavy duvet that’s entirely unfamiliar. I don’t own sheets that aren’t colorful, nor do I sleep on a mattress that feels like a literal cloud. I lift the edge of the sheet to peek underneath, and my heart beats like a stampede of wild horses.
Nothing. I’m not wearing a single stitch of clothing.
Panic, sharp and cold, flares in my chest. I scan the dimly lit room, my eyes darting from the sleek mid-century modern nightstands to the massive flat screen TV that’s mounted on the wall and finally to the luggage rack in the corner. My familiar, slightly scuffed designer suitcase is half-undone with a black silk camisole spilling out of the side. I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging in relief, and the tension leaves my body in a rush.
At least I’m in my hotel room.
The relief is short-lived, quickly replaced by a sense of dread. If this is my room in Las Vegas, why can’t I remember getting back to it, and why does my entire being feel utterly exhausted as if I spent last night running a marathon?
I throw my legs over the edge of the mattress, clinging to the top sheet like a makeshift toga and securing the heavy fabric around my naked body. When I stand up, my knees wobble, my balance threatening to betray me. I anchor my grip on the nightstand before I navigate the short distance to the bathroom. The chaos that’s my mind is full of blank spaces and shadowy half-memories.
My bleary eyes can’t handle the entirely too-bright LED lighting in the bathroom, so I do my best to avoid it and the mirror all together. I know exactly what I would see in my reflection: dark circles, smudged mascara, and the look of a woman who let Vegas win. Me, the woman who always has her shit together, who can go against men who think they’re smarter than me, and here I am, not having the stomach to face my reflection just yet.
I drop the sheets, walk straight toward the walk-in glass shower, turn the handle all the way to hot, and, without waiting a beat or for the water to create a steam, I step inside. My eyes close as I lift my head, allowing the stream to work its magic against my aching muscles, washing away the physical reminder of a night I can’t place. I raise my hands to sweep my wet hair back and wash the sleep from my face.
But as I lift my left hand, something feels off. A strange, subtle sensation, like a weight is pulling at my finger. I pause, my hands hovering inches from my face. I pop open one eye, my gaze focusing on my hand, and my stomach plummets to my feet.
On my finger, my very important ring finger, sits a platinum band, dominated by a massive emerald-cut diamond. The harsh bathroom light catches on the brilliancy, and dazzling rainbows dance across the gem. It’s stunning, unapologetically decadent, and worst of all… real.
I freeze, except that doesn’t seem to stop the world from spinning. I close my eyes, trying to blink away the ring, only to open them and find it still there. I lower my hand, back up a few paces to slide down the wet, tiled wall of the shower until my ass meets the floor while hot water beats down on my throbbing head and aching shoulders.
I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to fill the blank spaces in my head, begging for a memory, any memory to appear. And then, like a camera lens snapping into focus, the first blip returns. A heavy magnetic presence drew me in from across a crowded dimly lit bar. I remember the silhouette of a man—broad-shouldered, towering, and radiating effortless authority that made the rest of the world fade into a blur.