Drugged, Seduced, And Married To His Brother

Gemma Gonzales woke up feeling a profound sense of dislocation, as if her mind had been detached from her body and then crudely reconnected. A deep, internal fracturing she couldn't place seemed to radiate from her very core.

She gasped, her eyes flying open. The ceiling above her was a sprawling canvas of dark, expensive velvet.

She turned her head. The space beside her on the massive king-sized bed was empty. The sheets were tangled, but cool.

Fragments of last night slammed into her skull like a freight train.

The charity gala. The single glass of champagne. The sudden, terrifying dizziness that made the room spin.

A strange woman had gripped her arm, steering her toward the elevators. Gemma had realized, with a spike of pure adrenaline, that her senses were betraying her.

She remembered fighting the woman off, stumbling down a dimly lit hallway, and frantically dialing her best friend's number.

Then, the dark room.

She had pushed open a heavy door, seeking refuge. The room was pitch black. The sound of ice clinking against a glass had echoed in the silence.

She thought it was the male escort her friend Armida had jokingly promised to send if Gemma ever decided to rebel against her miserable marriage.

She had stumbled forward. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed. Before she hit the floor, a pair of strong, unrelenting hands caught her.

A heavy scent of bergamot and cedarwood had washed over her.

A deep voice had warned her she was in the wrong room.

But she was already fading, her consciousness dissolving. She remembered being lifted. A brief sense of safety before the world dissolved into a profound, silent chasm. Her last coherent thought was a delirious whisper, a fragment of her deepest sorrow escaping into the dark. "Two years... he won't even touch me..."

Now, the disorientation was gone. The cold reality of the morning light filtered through the heavy blackout curtains.

Gemma's stomach churned with nausea.

She saw a man’s suit jacket draped over a chair in the corner of the room, and a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. There was no sign of him. She slid off the mattress, her legs trembling so violently she almost collapsed.

Her expensive evening gown lay on the floor, torn at the seams from her earlier struggle in the hallway. She pulled it over her head with shaking hands.

She needed to leave. Now.

She grabbed her clutch from the floor. A desperate need to sever any lingering connection to the night's bewildering loss of control propelled her. She needed to escape the memory, the shame, the profound vulnerability that still clung to her like a shroud.

Grabbing her heels, Gemma ran out of the penthouse door like a fugitive.

The moment the elevator doors slid shut behind her, the man who had been standing on the balcony slowly opened his eyes.

Jakob Fuentes stepped back into the suite.

The morning light caught the sharp angles of his