Chapter Thirteen
739 Words
The suite smelled like luxury and sin.
Mariella stepped inside, her sneakers silent against the thick carpet. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside a world that looked straight out of a movie she had no business starring in.
It was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that was intentional, soft, golden, seductive. Jazz played from a hidden speaker, slow and teasing. The curtains were drawn, the city lights glowing faintly through the gaps.
Her eyes darted to the coffee table.
Two wine glasses. One of them already filled with red wine. A half-open bottle of Merlot beside it, label foreign and expensive.
Her stomach flipped.
The air itself felt heavy, designed to blur boundaries and melt hesitation. She could practically feel the room whispering, people don’t talk much here, they touch.
Her cheeks burned crimson.
“Oh God,” she muttered under her breath. “What am I doing here?”
Then she heard it.
The sound of running water from the bathroom.
Her entire body froze.
The shower. Someone was in the shower.
Her brain went into overdrive. Okay, relax. Maybe he’s just… cleaning up? Maybe the fake Paul has manners. Maybe he’s normal. Maybe he’s old and wrinkled and—
Her eyes landed on the chair by the bed. Draped across it was a gray windbreaker jacket.
Her breath hitched.
San Beda University.
The lion crest. The embroidery.
Mariella’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her palms went clammy. She stared at the jacket as if it might come alive and confirm what her brain refused to process.
“No way,” she whispered. “There’s no way.”
Her rational mind scrambled for excuses. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe the poser was just really, really dedicated. Maybe he thrifted the jacket somewhere?
But her gut, her gut told her something else.
She glanced toward the bathroom door, where steam was slowly spilling out into the suite.
Then the shower turned off.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She took a step back, gripping the strap of her bag like a lifeline. Every second dragged like a slow countdown to chaos.
The door opened.
And out walked Paul Marcus Razon.
The actual Paul Razon.
Not a poser. Not a cheap knockoff. Not a Temu version with delusions of grandeur.
The real deal.
He was taller than she remembered from the photos, all lean muscle and composure. His hair was damp, his skin glistening under the soft light. A white towel hung loosely around his waist, low enough to make her forget what breathing felt like.
Mariella’s brain short-circuited.
Paul looked up, and froze. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. Then his lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
“Well,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You must be Ariella.”
Mariella forgot how to blink.
He studied her, his gaze traveling from her trembling hands to her flushed cheeks, to the way she was gripping her bag like she might throw it at him.
He looked amused. Wickedly amused.
Her heart hammered so loud it drowned out the jazz.
“I…” she croaked, words failing her. “You’re… you’re—”
He took a step closer, that faint smirk deepening. “I’m what?”
Mariella’s throat went dry. “You’re not fake.”
He tilted his head slightly, a slow smile curving his lips. “And you’re not nearly as brave in person as you were on the phone.”
Her face flushed an even deeper red. “You, you catfished me!”
Paul laughed softly, the sound low and confident, like he had all the time in the world. “No. You assumed and insisted that I was a poser. That’s exactly how I remember our conversation went.”
Mariella could only stare, mortified, humiliated, and painfully aware that the man standing before her was everything the rumors said he was: devastatingly attractive, dangerously composed, and infuriatingly real.
Without breaking eye contact, Paul poured the second glass of wine and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers lightly.
Her hands shook as she took it.
Paul’s smile widened. “Relax, Ariella. I don’t bite.”
Then, after a pause, his gaze darkened, playful but sharp.
“Unless you ask.”
And Mariella, for the first time in her life, couldn’t tell if she wanted to slap him or thank the universe for this absurd twist of fate.
- Writer
