The Secretary's Fake Rockstar Husband

Cora's skull felt like it was splitting open.

She dragged a harsh breath into her lungs. The air didn't smell like the damp mildew of her Brooklyn apartment. It smelled like expensive cedar and sharp mint.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the pounding behind her temples. A hangover. A massive, world-ending hangover. She rubbed her thumb hard over her index finger knuckle, a nervous habit she'd had since she was twelve.

Her fingers brushed against the fabric beneath her. It wasn't her scratchy polyester blend. This was heavy, ice-cold, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton.

Her eyes snapped open.

She sat up so fast her stomach heaved. The heavy velvet duvet slid off her shoulders. Cora looked down. She was wearing a crisp, oversized white men's dress shirt. It swallowed her frame, the hem stopping mid-thigh.

Panic seized her throat. It felt like a physical hand cutting off her airway. She scanned the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the sprawling, glittering Manhattan skyline. This was a penthouse suite. A luxury one.

The sound of running water hit her ears.

It was coming from the bathroom across the massive room. Cora grabbed the edge of the duvet, pulling it up to her chin. Her muscles locked into solid stone.

She looked at the floor. Her black evening gown from last night lay in a heap on the thick rug. The delicate strap on her shoulder was torn, likely from when she'd stumbled out of the cab in her drunken stupor.

The water stopped.

The click of the bathroom door handle sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Cora stopped breathing. Her brain scrambled, desperate to find a single memory from the bar last night. Nothing. Just a black, empty void.

The heavy oak door swung open. Steam billowed out into the cold air of the bedroom. A man walked out.

He was incredibly tall, his shoulders broad and heavily muscled. He wore nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. Water dripped from his wet black hair, trailing down his chest and over his abs.

Cora's eyes locked onto his chest. Right over his left pectoral muscle, there were three fresh, angry red scratch marks.

The man ran a smaller towel through his hair. He lowered it, and piercing blue eyes locked onto her through the messy strands of his dark hair.

"Who..." Cora started. Her voice was a cracked whisper. She cleared her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. "Who are you?"

The man's lips curved into a slow, dark smirk. He tossed the towel onto a chair and walked toward the foot of the bed. He moved with a lazy, predatory grace.

"Callum Lee," he said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. He stopped at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her. "Tell me, Cora. Do you really have zero memory of the assault you committed last night?"

Cora's blood ran ice cold. "Assault? No.