The Billionaire's Kiss

The roses were flown in from Ecuador. The custom-sewn gown from a Parisian designer who worked exclusively for royalty and red carpets. The chandeliers overhead sparkled with a thousand lights, reflecting off buffed marble and perfection. By every account, Arielle Santos was heading into her dream wedding — until the dream shattered. The hallway to the groom's suite should be clear. She was in there only because her mother had insisted Brent had forgotten his grandfather's cufflinks — heirloom gold — and could she, the bride, fetch them for him? "It's sweet," her mother had said. "He'll adore spotting you in front of the ceremony. Just don't let him spy on the dress!" But fate didn't care about sentiment. At first, Arielle thought the sounds she heard were from the music — some sensual jazz rhythm rolling from the rehearsal ballroom. But as she neared the half-closed door, the truth crawled up her spine. A woman’s moan. Low, sultry, primal. Then a man’s voice — Brent’s voice. “You’ve always known how to shut me up.” Arielle’s heels stopped clicking. She pushed the door further. Her breath caught. There they were — Mia, barely clothed, legs around Brent, head thrown back in ecstasy. The bridesmaid's dress was up to her hips, Brent's tuxedo pants partially unzipped. He groaned as he slid into her against the mahogany cabinet, one hand holding onto her hip, the other in her hair. Arielle did not scream. Did not cry. She stood immobile in the doorway — the lace of her veil whipping behind her like a dropped flag. It was Mia who noticed her first. Her sneer became something harder, more triumphal. "Well, look who's here for the honeymoon early," she cooed, not even bothering to be decent. Brent spun around. Shame paled his face, but he did not release Mia. "Ari… this isn't what it appears like—" No," Mia broke in. "It's exactly what it seems. Don't insult her intelligence." Arielle remained silent. Her fingers relaxed. The box containing the cufflinks fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Then she turned. Walked out. In silence. She got as far as the hallway, out the doors, and into the waiting limousine intended to take her to the altar. She instructed the driver to take her anywhere but there. Twenty-Four Hours Later She emerged like fire emerging from smoke. The afterparty for the engagement was still going to happen. The hall had been booked, champagne already pouring. Guests still lingered in uncertainty, half-whispers and taut smiles plastered on made-up faces perfect for the society pages. A no-show bride was a scandal. But a no-show bride whose groom was found balls-deep in the maid of honor? That was history for the tabloids. Nevertheless, the upper class never missed an opportunity to dress up and drink somebody else's wine. So they showed up anyhow — influencers, CEOs, former models, mistresses of politicians, all hoping for a peek at the dumped heiress. They were expecting her to slink home in humiliation or disappear forever. Instead, Arielle Santos strolled into the party as if she owned the building. And the planet it occupied. The room did not gasp. It stopped. Then gasped. She wore blood red. The dress was a rebellious shout against the white silk she'd left in shreds on a dressing room floor. Backless. Deep-plunged. Slit up the thigh high enough to get sued over. Her hair was pulled back into a smooth knot, her neck exposed, her mouth colored like sin. She didn't smile. She didn't have to. Her presence was thunderous. Mia saw her just about right away. The bridesmaid-turned-homewrecker was slumped against the bar, wearing glinting gold as if she'd already won the prize. When their gazes met, Mia sneered — slow draw of disgust curling the tip of her lip. "Well, if it isn't the pathetic bride," Mia shouted over the music, loud enough for ears to gather around them. "Managed to make an appearance after all? Arielle walked through the ocean of stares. She didn't slow down. Didn't answer. Her heart was a drumbeat of anger in her throat. She just had to make it through this moment. But she caught sight of him as she strode by the bar corner, and her eyes locked onto him. He was alone. Dark fitted suit. Shirt crisp and open at the collar, no tie. Glass of whiskey in hand, but it was the eyes that struck her hardest — piercing gray, sharp as a scalpel, observing everything. Xander Cruz. Notorious billionaire. Untouchable. Reclusive. Cruz Global CEO and the target of a thousand internet conspiracies. No one had any idea who he was with — or whether he was even in a relationship. He was infamous for deals, chaos, and that face-impossible to look away from. And now he was staring at her. Something broke in Arielle's chest. Perhaps it was her heart finally shattering, perhaps it was the anger, perhaps it was sheer f*****g madness to it all. But her heels turned. And before she could talk herself into common sense, she went at him, wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck— —and kissed him. Hard. Gasps burst throughout the room. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was the one that ignited oxygen. Her body against his, lips ravenous, breath pilfered. And he moved — not in confusion, but in a low thrum of interest, one hand on her hip, the other tracing up her spine as if he possessed her. When she pulled back, the crowd stood there in dumb silence. Her lips grazing his ear as she breathed, "Sorry. “Just play along.” And to her astonishment — he smiled. “You’re crazy,” he said quietly, his voice a deep, amused rumble. “I like it.” “Good,” Arielle said breathlessly. “Because I’m not done.” That’s when Mia stormed over. “What the hell is this?” she barked. “You disappear for a day and come back playing slut in heels?” Arielle didn’t even look at her. But Xander turned — slowly, deliberately — and placed himself fully between them. His voice dropped to a blade’s edge. “Touch her again,” he said, “and you’ll regret it.” The air dropped ten degrees. Mia blinked. “Excuse me?” “She’s my fiancée now,” Xander said, loud enough for the entire party to hear. Gasps broke through the room like shattering glass. Arielle’s heart stopped. This wasn’t part of the act. The lie should’ve ended at the kiss. But he wasn’t lying. Not with his gaze locked onto hers like he meant it. Not with the hand on her waist squeezing in a unspoken vow. And not when the camera phones surrounding them started to flash — guests crushing each other to get the most scandalous spin of the season. Arielle should have set it right. Should have laughed. Should have said, No, no, we were just— But she didn't. She said nothing. And by saying nothing, she said everything. Later That Night Xander Cruz's Penthouse, Skyfall Tower "Guess it's now that you reveal your true name," he stated, refilling the second glass of bourbon. They'd left the party together — a dignified exit via the private elevator, the kind that involved a thumbprint and a code. Arielle hadn't spoken yet. She was in shock. From the kiss. From the deception. From the fiery, volatile tension between them. "Arielle Santos," she said at last, taking the glass. "You?" "Xander Cruz." "I know who you are." "Good," he said. "Then you know I don't bluff." She took a sip. "Neither do I." Silence lay between them, heavy with tension. "Why'd you do it?" he finally walked to the windows that framed the city's sparkling skyline. She gazed at his back. Wide shoulders, strong build. A man who likely didn't hear 'no' often. He hadn't questioned out of curiosity. He wanted to know her. "To hurt them," she replied. "To humiliate her. To ensure they'd never forget who they betrayed." He turned. "And me? What's in it for me?" Her eyes contracted. "What do you want?" He leaned in. Placed the bourbon on the counter. The tension between them crackled. "I want chaos," he said, his voice a vow. "I want to see what happens when two liars make a tale too big to get out of. I want headlines. Scandal. Possibly a little revenge sex." She swallowed hard. "Is that it?" she asked, mouth curling. Xander smirked. "Depends." "On? He stepped so close his breath warmed her lips. “On how far you’re willing to take it.” She met his gaze, chin tilted. “All the way,” she whispered. Cliffhanger: Her phone buzzed. Dozens of missed calls. A hundred texts. But it was the latest notification that made her blood run cold. A gossip site headline blared across her lock screen: "Xander Cruz Rented to Jilted Heiress: Arielle Santos Replaces Cheating Bridegroom with Billionaire Tycoon Is It True?" And underneath it, a photograph of her and Xander during a kiss. Too real to erase. Too fake to last. Too hot to halt. Arielle locked the phone. And kissed him once more.